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automaticgardenflower · 1 year

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ZELDA FITZGERALD

Miss Ella

ZELDA FITZGERALD

Bitter things dried behind the eyes of Miss Ella like garlic on a string before an open fire. The acrid fumes of sweet memories had gradually reddened their rims until at times they shone like the used places in copper saucepans. Withal she was not a kitchen sort of person, nor even a person whom life had found much use in preserving. She was elegant, looking exactly like one of the ladies in a two-tone print on the top of a fancy glove box. Her red hair stuck out of a choir cap on Sundays in a tentative attempt to color the etching of her personality.

When I was young I loved Miss Ella. Her fine high instep curved into her white canvas shoes in summer with the voluptuous smoothness of a winter snowbank. She had a lace parasol and was so full of birdlike animation that she teetered on her feet when she spoke to you—sometimes she had meals with us and I remember her twittering about on our hearth after supper, dodging the popping bits of blue flame from our bituminous coal, believing ardently that “one” could keep fit by standing up twenty minutes after eating.

All the people in the world who were not her blood relations were impersonally “one” to Miss Ella. She was severe with the world and had she ordered the universe she would have kept it at runners’ tension toeing the chalk starting mark forever. I don’t know which would have upset her equanimity more: the materialization of a race or the realization that there wasn’t going to be any. In any case, “one” must keep fit for all problematical developments.

Even her moments of relaxation were arduous, so much so as to provoke her few outbursts of very feminine temper and considerable nervous agitation. She was essentially Victorian. Passing along the sidewalk in the heat of the afternoon and seeing Miss Ella far away in her hammock in the shade of the big elms by the house, her white skirt dusting a white flutter off the snowball bushes as she rocked herself back and forth, you would never have guessed how uncomfortable she was or how intensely she disliked hammocks. It always took at least three tries before she was tolerably ensconced: the first invariably loosened the big silver buckle that held her white-duck skirt in place; the second was wasted because it might result in immodest exposure of her fragile legs, by furling too tightly around her the white canvas lengths. After that she simply climbed into the hammock and did her arranging afterwards, which is about as easy as dressing in a Pullman berth. The hammock fanned its red and yellow fringe in a triumphant crescent motion that discomfited Miss Ella. By holding tightly to the strings at one end and desperately straining her foot against the worn patch of clay in the grass underneath, she managed to preserve a more or less static position. With her free hand she opened letters and held her book and brushed away things that fell from the trees and scratched the itchings that always commence when stillness is imperative.

These were Miss Ella’s hours of daytime rest. She never allowed herself to be disturbed until the sun had got well to the west and down behind the big house, its last light pulsing through the square hallways in the back windows and out the front, vivisected by the cold iron tracery of the upstairs balcony, to fall in shimmering splinters on the banana shrubs below. At five a decisive old lady rolled up the drive in a delicate carriage, high and springy, with a beige parasol top. Her hair was snow-white and her face was white and pink with antebellum cosmetics. Even from far away they emanated the pleasant smell of orris root and iris. She held the reins absentmindedly in one hand, the big diamonds in their old-fashioned settings poking up through her beige silk gloves. Her other arm made a formal, impersonal nest for a powdered spitz. When she called to Miss Ella the words slid along the sun rays with the sound of a softly drawn curtain on brass rings. “Ella! It’s time to cool off, my child. The dust is settled by now. And oh, Ella, be a good girl and find Aunt Ella’s fan, will you?”

So Miss Ella and Aunt Ella and the white dog went for their afternoon drive, leaving the sweet cool of the old garden to the aromatic shrubs, the fireflies, and the spiders who made their webs in the boxwood, to the locusts tuning the air for night vibrations and to three romantic children who waited every day for the carriage to roll out of sight before scaling the highest bit of wall that surrounded the grounds.

We loved that garden. Under two mulberry trees where the earth was slippery beneath our bare feet there stood a wooden playhouse, relic of Miss Ella’s youth. To me it never seemed an actual playhouse but to represent the houses associated with childhood in homely stories; it was in my imagination the little red schoolhouse, the farmhouse, the kindly orphan asylum, literary locales that never materialized in my own life. I never went inside but once, because of a horror of the fat summer worms that fell squashing from the mulberry trees. It was dry and dusty, scattered traces of a frieze of apple blossoms still sticking to the walls where Miss Ella had pasted them long ago.

No one but us ever went near the playhouse, not even the grandnieces of Aunt Ella when they came occasionally to visit. Almost buried in a tangle of jonquils and hyacinths dried brown from the summer heat, its roof strewn with the bruised purple bells of a hibiscus overhanging its tiny gables, the house stood like a forgotten sarcophagus, guarding with the reticent dignity that lies in all abandoned things a paintless, rusty shotgun. Here was a rough oasis apart from the rest of the orderly garden. From out of the delicate concision there foamed and billowed feathery shell-colored bushes that effervesced in the spring like a strawberry soda; there were round beds of elephant’s ears with leaves that held the water after a rain and changed it to silver balls of mercury running over the flat surface. There were pink storm lilies on their rubbery stems, and snowdrops, and shrubs with bottle-green leaves that ripped like stitching when you tore them. Japonicas dropped brown flowers into the damp about the steps of the square, somber house, and wistaria vines leaned in heavy plaits against the square columns. In the early morning Miss Ella came with a flat Mexican basket and picked the freshest flowers for the church. She said she tended the garden, but it was really Time and a Negro contemporary of his who did that. In front of the kitchen door, the old black man had a star-shaped bed of giant yellow cannas covered with brown spots and in a crescent were purple pansies. He scolded appallingly when he caught us on the grounds: he was most proprietary about the place and guarded the playhouse like some cherished shrine.

That was the atmosphere that enveloped the life of Miss Ella. Nobody knew why she found it sufficient; why she did not follow the path of the doctor’s coupe that divided its time between the downtown club and the curb in front of her shadowy lawn. The reason was Miss Ella’s story, which like all women’s stories was a love story and like most love stories took place in the past. Love is for most people as elusive as the jam in Alice in Wonderland—jam yesterday, jam tomorrow, but no jam today. Anyhow, that was how it was with Miss Ella, living titularly on the jam of some time ago, skimming over life’s emotions like a bird flying low over the water detaching bright sprays into the air with its wings.

In her youth she was as slim and smooth as a figure in blown glass. Compact in long organdies that buoyed themselves out on the bars of a waltz, she stood firm in the angular aloof arm of her fiance.

He pyramided above her, two deep lines from the corners of his eyes, his mouth closed tight over many unuttered words, a deep triangle about the bridge of his nose. In the autumn he stood for hours up to his knees in the greasy backwash from the river, the long barrel of his gun trained skyward on wide files of green-backed ducks flying south over the marshes. He brought his loot to Miss Ella in bunches and she had them cooked in her white-pine kitchen, steeped in port and bitters and orange peel, till the brown delicious odor warmed the whole house. They sat together over an enormous table, eating shyly in the dim rings of light that splattered the silver and crept softly over the heavy frames of the dark still lifes that lined the wall. They were formally in love. There was a passive dignity in the currents that passed between them that quieted the air like a summer Sunday morning. The enveloping consideration of him, the luminous fragility of her, they made a harmonious pair.

In those days the town was small, and elegant ladies agitated their rockers with pleasure back of boxwood gardens as Miss Ella and her beau whipped past in his springy carriage, the light pouring over the polished spokes of the wheels like the flowing glint of water over a mill.

He called her “dear”; she never called him anything but Mr. Hendrix. In the soft chasm of the old hall after a late party, he reverently held her hands, hands filled with a dance card, a butterfly pin, a doll in feathers, trinkets of the dance, souvenirs of dreamy rhythms that wavered in her head with the fluctuations of watered silk propelled by the warmth of quiet happiness. They poured the plans for their life together into the molds of the thick tree shadows and turned them out on the midnight air marked with the delicate tracings of the leaves—modest stable plans of two in love. He told her how things were to be, and she acquiesced, pleased with his quiet voice piling up in midair like smoke in an airless room.

They were both religious to a fashionable restrained extent, and it was the church which drew Andy Bronson across the strings of their devotion, to saw them and haggle them and finally leave the broken ends twisting upward, frayed and ruined, dangling loose in tragedy with the resonance of twisted catgut. Miss Ella and Mr. Hendrix planned to be married in the square white church in the spring. Entering from the back where the iron banisters led to the balcony, they planned to walk in solemnity through the misty gusts of face powder, the green smell of lilies, the holiness of candles, to barter with God at the altar; toil and amiability for emotional sanctity. He said that there would be beauty and peace forever after and she said “Yes.”

Sorting their dreams absentmindedly, like putting clean linen in a cupboard, they stood side by side dreaming of that at Christmastime. A church festival was going on and there were eggnog and lemonade and silver cake baskets filled with sliced fruitcake and bonbonnieres of nuts and candy in the Sunday school room. The church was hot, and young men drifted out and in again, bringing with them the odor of overcoats and cigarettes smoked in the cold, and fumes of bourbon. There in the smoky feminine confusion stood Andy Bronson, the excitement of Christmas hanging bright wreaths about his cheekbones, a mysterious quiet certitude proclaiming nefarious motives.

Miss Ella was conscious of him in a still world beyond reality, even as she talked with animation of all the years that would churn behind the honeymoon boat that plied between Savannah and New York. From that tremulous duality she shivered into the confusion that followed the bang of the giant firecracker that Andy had lit beneath the steps that led to the balcony. A spark caught in her flimsy Dolly Varden and Ella’s dress was in flames. Through the slow split groups laughing, disapproving, explaining, not knowing what had happened, Andy was the first to reach her burning skirts, clapping the blaze between his palms until only a black, charred fringe was left.

The day after Christmas, hid in an enormous box of roses so deep in red and remorse that their petals shone like the purple wings of an insect, he sent her yards and yards of silk from Persia, and then he sent her ivory beads, a fan with Dresden ladies swinging between mother-of-pearl sticks, a Phi Beta Kappa key, an exquisite miniature of himself when his face was smaller than his great soft eyes—treasures. Finally he brought her a star sapphire (which she tied about her neck in a chamois bag lest Mr. Hendrix should know) and she loved him with desperate suppression. One night he kissed her far into the pink behind her ears and she folded herself in his arms, a flag without a breeze about its staff.

For weeks she could not tell Mr. Hendrix, saving and perfecting dramatically the scene she hopefully dreaded. When she did tell him, his eyes swung back in his head with the distant pendulousness of a sea captain’s. Looking over her small head through far horizons with the infinite sadness of a general surrendering his sword, finding no words or thoughts with which to fill her expectant pathos, he turned and slowly rolled the delicate air of early spring down the gravel path before him and out into the open road. Afterwards he came to call one Sunday and sat stiffly in a bulbous mahogany chair, gulping a frosted mint julep. The depression about him made holes in the air, and Miss Ella was glad when he left her free to laugh again.

The southern spring passed, the violets and the yellow-white pear trees and the jonquils and cape jasmine gave up their tenderness to the deep green lullaby of early May. Ella and Andy were being married that afternoon in her long living room framed by the velvet portieres and Empire mirrors encasing the aroma of lives long past. The house had been cleaned and polished, and shadows and memories each put in their proper place. The bride cake nested on southern smilax in the dining room and decanters of port studded the long sideboard mirrors with garnets. Between the parlor and the dining room calla lilies and baby’s-breath climbed about a white tulle trellis and came to a flowery end on either side of the improvised altar.

Upstairs, Miss Ella was deep in the cedar and lavender of a new trunk; fine linen nightgowns and drawnwork chemises were lifted preciously into the corners and little silk puffs of sachet perched tentatively over the newness. A Negress enamored of the confusion stood in the window drinking in the disorder from behind dotted swiss curtains, looking this way and that, stirring the trees with the excitement of her big black eyes and quieting the room with the peace they stole from the garden.

Miss Ella heard the curtains rip as the strong black hands tore them from the fragile pole. “O Lawd—O Lawd—O Lawd.” She lay in a heap of fright. By the time Ella reached the heavy mass, the woman could only gesticulate toward the window and hide her face. Ella rushed to the window in terror.

The bushes swished softly in the warmth. On the left there was nothing remarkable: a carriage crawling away far down the road, and plants growing in quiet now that their flowers were shed. Reassurance of the coming summer pushed her leaping heart back into place. Ella looked across the drive. There on the playhouse steps lay Mr. Hendrix, his brains falling over the earth in a bloody mess. His hands were clinched firmly about his old shotgun, and he as dead as a doornail.

Years passed but Miss Ella had no more hope for love. She fixed her hair more lightly about her head and every year her white skirts and peekaboo waists were more stiffly starched. She drove with Auntie Ella in the afternoons, took an interest in the tiny church, and all the time the rims about her eyes grew redder and redder, like those of a person leaning over a hot fire, but she was not a kitchen sort of person, withal.

First published in Scribner’s Magazine (December 1931).

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smiting-finger · 3 years

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alive, and back on my usual nonsense

So after getting preoccupied with other things and temporarily falling off the face of the planet (for like an entire year ಥωಥ), I was thinking about the kdrama Mr. Queen (which I've been meaning to watch), and the Chinese novel it was based on (太子妃升职记, which I read a few years ago and very much enjoyed), and this popped out--

Wei Wuxian’s first thought is that there seem to be an awful lot of female voices around, for a bedroom inhabited by two men. Did he drink too much last night? It wouldn’t be the first time he’s overindulged on a trip to the town and woken up in a strange place the next morning, but that kind of problem has been cropping up a lot less frequently now that he has Lan Zhan around to ferry him home.

(Sometimes literally, on his back. His broad, strong--)

But perhaps Lan Zhan had gotten drunk, too? In which case, Wei Wuxian should consider them lucky to have woken up surrounded by people, rather than chickens, rabbits or, notably, on one occasion, mounds of resentful cabbages.

The chatter around him continues, pitched high with youth and - is that anxiety? It's interspersed with the odd interjection from what sounds like one (calmer, if more exasperated) older woman and a man. Probably not a nunnery, he decides. Perhaps the back rooms of a pleasure house? Although, if that’s the case, this amount of excitement over a mere two men is honestly a little excessive.

He reaches out tentatively, but pats all the way across the mattress to the edge without finding his usual bedfellow. A much less tentative venture towards the other side produces similar results.

Hm.

Wei Wuxian cracks open an eye and heaves himself upright, absent-mindedly scratching at his (unusually soft - as much as he hates to admit it, maybe Nie Huaisang has a point about drinking less and training more) side and squinting into the too-bright light until the person-shaped blur in front of him sharpens into focus.

“Niang niang!” a complete stranger cries tearfully, clutching at the sleeve of his other arm. “You’re awake! Thank Heavens, you’re awake! Physician Liu, quick, quick!”

A cushion is produced from somewhere and thrust expectantly between Wei Wuxian and the elderly man sitting at his bedside.

He sighs. It’s probably not worth fighting.

Wei Wuxian smacks his upturned wrist onto the unusually lavish brocade and is only a little surprised when it’s covered by a cloth before the physician reaches to take it.

(Do they think he’s diseased?)

((Is he diseased?!))

(((Is that why Lan Zhan isn’t here?)))

He looks at the row of young girls (+ 1 matron) kneeling along the wall to his left, dressed identically to the first and also now beginning to prostrate themselves and wail about “Niang niang!” and blessings and deserving to die.

Not a pleasure house, then.

He looks around at the rest of the richly-furnished room and its intricately-carved wooden furniture, the wealth of jade carvings and the obscene amount of gold that's gilding … everything (so shiny). The opulence of it all would put even Jin Guangshan to shame.

So, not a nunnery either.

He looks down at the small hands, delicate wrists and - he clutches one abruptly just to make sure his eyes aren’t deceiving him - breasts of the body that he certainly was not inhabiting yesterday.

“Well,” he says aloud, unable to stop himself from wincing at the high, soft voice that emerges despite fully expecting it. “It’s not the first time this has happened.”

===

Two days, one diagnosis of shock-induced memory loss and some discreet enquiries (as well as some indiscreet enquiries) later, this is what he knows about his situation:

He’s the main consort (unfavoured) of the crown prince of whatever place he’s landed in;

Three days ago, following a disagreement with one Consort Yun (favoured, main competitor for husband’s affections);

In the course of this disagreement, both women somehow fell into a palace lake and mostly-drowned;

Consort Yun (admittedly quite pretty) was revived at the scene, but Wei Wuxian took a full day to “miraculously” recover;

Angered by the unseemly behaviour of her daughters-in-law, particularly upon learning that the Crown Princess’s first act upon waking was to stumble upon a chance meeting between the Crown Prince and Consort Yun in one of the pleasure gardens and bodily throw herself between them (a tactical error on Wei Wuxian’s part. He’d been trying to throw himself over the battlements to freedom, but he’d gotten lost and scaled the wrong wall), the Empress (Crown Prince’s political opponent, not particularly fond of either consort) grounded both of them to their respective residences for a month, with no visitors allowed.

Which brings him to his current position, feeding the fish in his personal pond as an excuse to be alone. Not truly alone - he shoots a pointed glance at the maids watching anxiously from the other side of the courtyard - because he’s apparently a “suicide risk” now (and honestly, yes, he’d meant to throw himself off that roof, but he hadn’t meant to die - it’s simply that this new body’s cultivation level is not what he’s come to expect even from Mo Xuanyu’s modest abilities), but alone enough to start planning his next move.

Direct escape is out - he didn’t have a plan for what to do once he’d gotten out anyway, and honestly he’s better-resourced for finding out how he got here in the Palace than anywhere else, so it’s no great loss.

“What do you think, Master Fish?” Wei Wuxian asks a gold and black spotted koi with particularly sage-looking whiskers. “Shall I just stay here for the time being?”

It’s not a terrible place to be for the time being, he must admit, throwing more food into the water and watching the fish swarm. Being grounded, he’s at no risk from the Crown Prince’s amorous attentions for a month (a salute of gratitude to the Empress for the inadvertent protection). And thanks to Consort Yun and her voluptuous figure (and if the Crown Prince is more partial to that than the Zhao Feiyan style of willowy fragility that Wei Wuxian seems to have inherited, who can honestly blame him?), he’s at no great risk from them after that, either (a salute of gratitude to the unknowing sister-in-arms, taking one - and hopefully a great many more after that - for the team).

According to his maid (sleeve-clutcher extraordinaire, who even now is boring two holes into his skull with her woeful gaze from across the way while he does nothing more suspicious than scatter another handful of feed towards some latercomer fish), the body he’s inhabiting comes from a powerful military lineage. In particular, her father is (was?) a powerful general who currently commands more than half the nation’s military forces and has the absolute trust of the Emperor. So that more or less keeps him safe from the machinations of the majority of the nest of vipers in this palatial cesspit.

That just leaves the Empress, who - if his servants and the smuggled letters from the Original Goods’s mother (a salute of gratitude to the worthy woman for spelling it out so that even such an interloper as he can understand) are anything to go by - would definitely kill him to damage the Crown Prince’s political standing or throw any sort of roadblock in the way of him from becoming Emperor.

Less immediately - if his secret informants are anything to go by (a salute of gratitude to the resourceful host for cultivating such a valuable resource if not her dantian) - it also leaves the Crown Prince, who, upon cementing his power as Emperor, would also definitely kill his current Crown Princess in order to wedge his beloved Consort Yun into the Empress role.

Really, the only road to any sort of security for someone in his position is to raise the next Imperial heir, outlive the Original Goods’s faithless husband and become the Empress Dowager.

Hopefully Wei Wuxian will be long gone by then, but if leaving means the Original Goods will return (from … Mo Xuanyu’s body? The Ether? Or???) - well, he doesn’t want to repay her hospitality by leaving her house in a mess, so to speak. So he’ll try to set her on that career path, if he can.

But that’s an aspirational goal. First, he has to not-die before he can find out how to get himself home.

And find out how to get himself home.

If getting himself home is even possible.

Wei Wuxian dumps the rest of the fish food in the water and yells.

(It startles the maids, the fish and the poor eunuch the Crown Prince has sent as a spy into falling out of the tree he’s been hiding in and into the prickly bushes below.)

===

The problem with “staying for the time being” is … well, how interminably boring it is. The approved list of hobbies for an Imperial consort seems to consist of: eating (but not too much), sleeping (but not too much), embroidery (which he can’t do), reading (but only texts on female virtue and the occasional terrible novel), playing music (but not the flute), conversing with his maids (who are very sweet, but are all like, 12) and walking in the gardens (which he’s not allowed to do).

Honestly, it’s no wonder all the consorts turn to scheming and murder.

It only takes a week of confinement for him to snap and sneak himself out for a nighttime adventure, setting off to explore the grounds and see … a night-blooming flower, a ghost, a rat, he’ll take pretty much anything at this point.

In the end, he finds none of these things, but the walking is still pretty nice, and he even hears the faint sounds of a guqin wafting over from one of the other consorts’ residences. (He should probably learn who lives where at some point, but it’s not exactly a priority. What’s he going to do with the information when he can only visit during the nighttime? Peep?) When Wei Wuxian wanders closer, the notes resolve themselves into the familiar strains of Flowing Waters, and his breath catches on a sudden surge of longing to hear the same song, played by a different set of fingers.

(First played on a familiar guqin and then, later, accompanied by soft humming between soft, worn sheets, played across the edges of Wei Wuxian’s ribs, along the dip of his spine, and finally lower, into--)

((Is Lan Zhan thinking about him?))

(((Is Lan Zhan looking for him?)))

Stumbling blindly on, he’s so caught up in missing Lan Zhan that he misses the first few stanzas of the next piece, and it isn’t until the music starts to rise in a familiar refrain that he freezes.

He knows that song.

He’s one of the only two people who know that song, which is in fact how he got caught out the last time he found himself in a farce of an identity charade, by the only other person who knows that song, who must be - who must be -

Lan Zhan, his blood sings in his ears as he takes off in a dead run towards the source of the playing. Up ahead of him, small courtyard glows softly with the light of the only burning lamp in their vicinity. Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan-

He scrambles up the wall with the ease of a lifetime’s practice, using bloody-minded determination to make up for the lack of muscle memory.

“Lan Zhan,” he yelps, forgetting to whisper in his excitement as he flings himself over the top and into the branches of a convenient, wall-side tree. “Lan Zhan, it’s me, I-”

This is, naturally, when his foot slips. He manages to catch hold of a branch, but his tender hands and puny wrists, unused to holding up anything heavier than a chicken leg, fail to maintain their hold through his weight, and he tumbles down the trunk into a sad puddle of fabric on the ground.

“Lan Zhan,” he gasps, fighting to untangle himself from the ridiculous train that, admittedly, made a considerable contribution to cushioning his fall. He clambers up onto his hands and knees--

--and looks straight into the wide-eyed stare of Consort Yun.

===

“I cannot believe,” Wei Wuxian growls, palming the ample softness of one exposed breast with one hand, while shoving the other deeper into the many (too many) layers of fabric between them and between Lan Zhan’s splayed legs, “that after everything that’s happened, you’re still taller than me.”

Lan Zhan huffs a laugh that turns quickly into a moan, and Wei Wuxian swallows it, smothers Lan Zhan’s gasping breaths with his own parted lips and sucks them greedily down even as he coaxes out more with twisting fingers here, another tug to Lan Zhan’s poor, abused nipple there.

He slides his fingers back between slick folds and then upwards again, pushing in and out in a few languid strokes before curling them to make Lan Zhan arch harder against the wall behind him, tilt his head back and expose a beautifully vulnerable stretch of neck to Wei Wuxian's teeth.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan murmurs, and his voice is different, the shape of his lips is different, but the way Wei Wuxian’s name fits inside his mouth (tender, beloved), the way he tucks the flyaway strands of hair behind Wei Wuxian’s ear, the look in his eyes when their gazes meet (warm, open, knowing) are the same, same, same.

===

I am entirely too lazy to write the rest of it, but afterwards they regroup and it turns out LWJ has been in this world for exactly one more day than WWX, having woken up in Consort Yun’s body when she was “revived”. Consort Yun is the daughter of a high-ranking Minister in the Treasury or something, so Lan Zhan been using his new position as the daughter of a ~scholarly family~ to build a reputation for being really into Buddhist scripture, and eventually he’s going to request to be allowed to go to a nearby Temple to attain some virtuous brownie points for the Imperial family via prayer as his penitence.

That there’s also an elderly monk living there who’s got a reputation for being super good with the divine mysteries and spiritual lore about curses and whatnot is totally immaterial, if Lan Zhan happens to run into that guy, it’ll be a total coincidence, yeah.

So WWX also starts on the divine penitence route, and if everyone thinks it’s because the Crown Princess refuses to be outdone by Consort Yun, then even better, and two weeks into confinement they wear the Empress down into letting them make the trip, and when they get there, turns out the monk is Nie Huaisang.

(NHS: “OH THANK GOD, I’ve done the research but the lynchpin of this mess is definitely somewhere in the Palace and I could not for the life of me figure out a way to get in.”

WWX: “That's nice, but seriously, how come you got to stay a man?”

NHS: “My friend, I may be a man, but my balls are currently swinging somewhere around my ankles.”

WWX: “...show me.”

And LWJ is like “NO.” except WWX can tell by the look in his eye that he sort of wants to see, too).

So they return to the Palace and WWX whirls into one of their morning audiences with the Empress, distraught about a ~dream from the ancestors~ where they warned him about disrupted ley lines or accumulated resentment or an offended minor god that needs investigation by someone, and “How convenient, because we met just the guy!” And the Empress looks like she was Done Five Years Ago, but the Empress Dowager, who’s old and doddery, is like “oh no, you must bring him!” and the Empress mutters “to fucking what, offend some major gods and really do the job properly?” and that’s how they find out the Empress is Jiang Cheng.

In the meantime, the confinement edict expires and WWX+LWJ are allowed to return to their regular programming, which means that as the legal wife, WWX can continuously summon LWJ to his residence for increasingly tenuous and spurious reasons. The best thing is, it’s not even out of character for the Crown Princess, who used to regularly summon Consort Yun to subject her to not-so-veiled barbs and petty torments. So WWX summons LWJ, and then immediately expels both their entourages from the room, instructing that no one is to enter on pain of death.

So LWJ’s maids are gnashing their teeth helplessly while all sorts of piteous moans, pained gasps and the occasional scream emanate from behind the closed door, and when their mistress finally emerges there are no marks on her body, but she’s weak-kneed and having trouble walking straight, so who knows what kind of terrible tortures the Crown Princess has visited upon her.

The Crown Prince obviously hears about this, so he bursts in one day without warning, only to find the two sitting together, the Crown princess’s arms around Consort Yun’s waist, her cheek pillowed on one heaving bosom, and although she’s smiling besottedly at him now, he could have sworn that he felt killing intent being directed at him only a second ago? And to tell the truth, he’s not really in love Consort Yun either, it’s all an act to keep the two consorts (and their families) pitted in a power struggle against each other until he can finally outmanoeuvre the Empress and cement his position as heir to the throne (and also to protect his actual favourite, a third consort who’s a nondescript nobody with no political backing). So the fact that “It was all a misunderstanding, we’re friends now,” his Crown Princess says sweetly (and did she … rub her cheek against his Consort’s chest? Must be his imagination) is not the worst thing (at least neither of them/their families can be enlisted by the Empress in support of her son, and if they’re caught up with Being Besties, then at least they’re not bullying his actual favourite), but for some reason he still feels kind of … threatened? Like someone’s making moves on his wife, which is absurd because they’re both his wives, but the vibes he gets from the first one in particular are kind of … off?

In any case, the crew solve the mystery, find the lynchpin object (which turns out to be a jade dildo belonging to one of the Emperor’s favoured consorts because of course it is), and wake up in their real bodies, in their real world, to a very apologetic hermit-inventor-cultivator whose property they stumbled onto while pursuing a resentful beast. Turns out they triggered the glamour/enchantment/psychic maze world he created as a security system because, “I just didn’t want to risk people getting into my stuff, you know? I’ve got some things that could be very dangerous in the wrong hands”. WWX is like “oh yeah, for sure” and JC is like “WHAT DO YOU MEAN FOR SURE? HOW IS THIS AN UNDERSTANDABLE RESPONSE, IF YOU’RE AFRAID PEOPLE WILL TOUCH YOUR SHIT THEN JUST ENCHANT SOME FUCKING WARRIOR GOLEMS LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE.”

#CQL #The Untamed #mo dao zu shi #Wangxian #fic #not-fic

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hrodvitnon · 2 years

Note

Goji doesn't mind the idea of being a mostly passive observant and clean up crew to Monster-X and Mothra's for the foreseeable future. In fact, he is quite eager to see the long term effects it will have on them both as he is aware of how much a Titan can change once exposed to high end pleasure for long periods of time, specially if it comes from a seemly "forbidden" source.

Monster-X's change was quite an interesting one, they became far more confident in themselves after spending time with Mothra and are generally more assertive than before. On a physical level, their body started to produce way more seed due to Increased demand, leading to bigger, fertile loads.

Mothra's change was more subtle, but none the less noticable for Goji. Constant exposure to Monster-X's scent and seed started to make her more responsive to them, with even the smallest trace of their scent being enough to make her walls start clenching in anticipation. She also became more willing, eagerly presenting herself without any command or request and relishing in every second of being taken by them. She became what one would call "A Horny Bitch"

Goji knows Monster X is approaching when Mothra starts mewling and puffing up her fur to gain a more voluptuous shape, though he assures her she's beautiful no matter what she does. No matter how drunk she gets on sex with her new stud, Mothra always melts at her mate's compliments.

Monster X no longer sneaks into the nest but swaggers in with utmost confidence, sometimes with their erection slipping out mid-stride or keeping themselves restrained only until Mothra presents herself or rushes towards her stud. On the times where they keep themselves restrained, Mothra immediately takes a knee and sets her mouth to work at the virile pouch at Monster X's groin, at which point their erection slides out and the Queen immediately begins worshipping the impressive shaft with her mouth and tongue, arching back so its length rests atop her breast while she laps at the beads of precum at their tip.

Soon the couple find themselves in a 69, one of their favorite positions (second only to a mating press against a wall). Mothra gets so sensitive lately that she comes several times before Monster X reaches their own climax right in her mouth. Goji recalls the rules he set and straightens up to "discipline" them, but is surprised by Monster X smugly pointing out he never specified where they were allowed to come inside Mothra, only that they must come inside her which they technically did. Goji concedes the point but growls that he'll let it slide this once, warning that Monster X better not get too big for their britches or he'll remind them who's in charge. Monster X just glances down at Goji's own erection and gives him a flirty look, responding, "Can't wait..." Which causes Goji's brows to raise and his cock to twitch with interest. Perhaps he and Monster X will have time to "bond" after the Queen is well and thoroughly bred...

Meanwhile Mothra is a moaning mess as she slurps up as much of her lover's seed as possible before Monster X carries her to their favorite spot in the nest, spins her right-side up so they can kiss while the hybrid gets their long cock into position.

Goji and Monster X lock eyes and an unspoken game begins to see who can make their partner moan louder. Monster X leans back to carry Mothra's weight and holds her legs wider apart so they can penetrate her more deeply and rapidly, while Goji confidently angles his thrusts to hit all of Rodan's spots and leans on his elbows in order to fondle his sensitive chest. Both Mothra and Rodan are keening loudly as their respective lovers work them to the limit, either incoherently moaning or crying out for more, Goji leaning even closer so his tongue can wrestle with Rodan's without muffling him.

At first Monster X seems to be taking the lead when they fire a thick load straight to Mothra's womb and she squeals in a high-pitched orgasm, walls tightening so much that her lover pounds furiously and leaves several puddles of discharge over the wall and floor; but then Rodan shrieks at an ear-piercing volume when Goji's knot threatens to force itself inside his opening, the King moaning at Rodan's tightness and feeling like he's about to breed a willing female, only goaded to stronger thrusts when Rodan begs him to "knot me, daddy!"

Mothra gets a naughty idea while gasping for breath and wraps her front limbs around Monster X's neck and whispers something in their ear, causing another unexpected burst of cum from her stunned partner. They both jump in surprise at the sound of Rodan wailing whorishly in response to Goji's knot popping inside him, the volcanic raptor firing off spurt after spurt of his own seed.

Goji suddenly recalls the period when Mothra and Rodan were making love like Titanic rabbits and how she'd retained Rodan's scent for long periods, not to mention the increased sensitivity, and he chuckles to himself. Mothra gives him a curious look and he confesses that they shouldn't make assumptions so soon, but it's possible that Monster X has gotten her pregnant already. Mothra squeals in delight and throws herself at Goji for an embrace, excited to tell Monster X the news. Goji reminds her it's only possible and they don't know for certain, but that just means they can have more sex to make it a positive pregnancy, and so he gets back to work preening her to look especially beautiful for her stud... plus it helps get her extra aroused and slick for the impending lovemaking.

#gemini amorim #spicy~!#en ess eff dubya

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perpetuelledaydreaming · 5 years

Text

hey hey you yeah, I don’t like your girl(boy)friend

summary: The Daily Bulge publishes a not so good article of Spider-man with Black Cat, y/n is pissed because that’s her boyfriend not only flirting but not catching her, so she decides to take matters into her own hands but it’s not that easy, because I mean Felicia is…well you will see.

word count: 4.3 k

author’s note: This was supposed to go one way, hence the title but the 20% of bi in me changed it once I saw like a one hour video of Felicia Hardy, AKA Black Cat on the PS4 game. I mean DAMN girl’s got game. Anyway, like and reblog and leave me requests like whatever you want and I DON’T KNOW HOW THE HELL THOSE TAG LIST WORK but I'm just going to try and do it. There’s going to be a few mistakes that ill be correcting them once I’m not burned out of this story since I wrote it like in record time. Love, -J.

___________

“What is this?”, you place your phone in front of Peter’s face who was laying down in the living room of the Avengers Compound.

He had been training with Bucky and had actually gotten his ass kicked by him since Bucky had gotten a new vibranium arm from T’Challa and Shuri, he was even stronger which annoyed Peter. Plus, he was already a trained assassin which made it difficult but with a vibranium arm? Nearly impossible.

“What?” Peter asked as his eyes fluttered open, he didn’t even know what he had to see since you had plastered the phone too close to his face.

And then they focused:

THE DAILY BULGE: Spider-man in a relationship with Black Cat, the same one who has been *terrorizing* New York the last few months. We request NYPD to investigate this romantic relationship or alliance.

Peter’s eyes opened like plates as he scrolled down and found attached to the article a rather… racy photo of him and Black Cat. Black Cat had Peter against a wall from a random rooftop in Queens, her arms were around his neck and her knee was between his legs really close to… well. It didn’t look good.

Fuck, Peter thought.

“Care to explain why my boyfriend is having a make-out session in a dark rooftop with Black Cat?”, you asked as you glared down at him. “Who, coincidentally, we have never even gotten this close to catch her for like a month?”

Peter sighed as he stood up and took a hold of your hand.

“Y/N, you know that it’s not what it looks like”, Peter said as he looked at your face, scowling.

You knew a lot of things in life, inheriting the genius genes of Tony Stark, you liked to think that you knew a lot. But one thing you knew, and you were sure about was that Peter Parker definitely adored you. Every glance, every touch, every moment, every word, hell you were sure that he would die for you. But this photo, this situation, definitely stroked a chord in you.

Peter was hot, he had grown out of that nerdy and shy guy he was when you first met him, and he was starting to become the leader you always knew he was, and girls notice it too. Gwen Stacy was all over Peter every time they ran into each other, plus girls sometimes couldn’t keep their eyes off of Peter when you walked with him. But here was the thing, if Peter was hot, Spider-man was hotter. Spider-man checked all the boxes for many girls: Fought against crime, had THE body that looked GREAT with that suit, safe everyone, risk his life, was an avenger and was extremely close and great to everyone that met him, I mean he was even polite to villains. Spider-man was winning the race for Avenger with more fan accounts, you were a close second and Thor was third.

But this? This was a whole different level.

“So why didn’t you bother to tell me about it?”, you asked as you snatched the phone from Peter’s hand and walked towards the kitchen.

Peter rolled his eyes and he followed you. As a couple, this was a first and Peter Parker, being as oblivious as he was, never thought something like this would actually happen.

And less with someone like Black Cat.

…

Peter had been doing patrols alone since you had been extremely busy the last few weeks, Peter knew you were an important person, but it had been out of controlled lately. Firstly, you had to study for university since your academic achievements were your second goal in life, plus law school wasn’t easy; Then, Pepper and you had actually started a project with Starks Industries about giving free classes to women and girls interested in STEM careers for them to earn a kind of degree that could start-jump their own projects or even work at Starks Industries; Moreover, you had been getting together with Fury and all the other Avengers about information regarding hydra nests in Europe and Latin America. And so, patrolling fall back at the end of your list, which was actually sad since it had been a way of spending time with Peter since you began avenging at fifteen.

But Peter had let it go, he didn’t want to be another thing for you to worry about, you would see each other every night and sleep together in your room at Stark’s Tower, and he was doing it fine alone, I mean it sucked being alone but nothing too big had happened and he managed himself, at least until Black Cat appeared.

“You look good”, a silky voice woke Peter out of his thoughts as he was watching Queens in a random rooftop he had recently swing to.

Peter turned around, startled when he saw her, and boy, she was something to see.

Grey or almost white hair wrapped up in a tall ponytail, with two strands of hair framing her face perfectly, complementing her sharp jawline while her almost purple eyes shined from behind her mask. Then her black leather costume with soft white lines was, well, tight everywhere. It framed her body perfectly and it looked like almost a second skin. Her body was voluptuous and beautiful, and her hands looked like claws with those nails, they seemed like they could cut ice.

But for Peter? She had nothing on you.

Peter stayed silence, he had been completely taken by surprise and he tried to prepare himself for his next moves. He definitely needed to catch her.

See, you had actually been having a lot of problems with her lately. At first, they were art robberies or to really rich people in Upper Manhattan, which was concerning but mostly it was something that the NYPD could take care of, but recently like all criminals she escalated. The latest ones were to Oscorp Industries and Hammer Industries, which was concerning considering that the information that these companies held was extremely delicate. Peter and you were really worried about what she could do to that information or more accurately, who she would sell that information to. Pepper and Happy were especially worried about any security breach to Stark Industries or even the Avengers compound but you had reinforced the security for both of those.

Therefore, it had been priority number one to catch her but here was the thing, she was sleek as hell and always escape before you could actually do anything about it.

“What happened? Cat got your tongue?”, she asked softly as she got even closer to Peter. Her eyes gleamed with malice and smirk was drawn on her face, as Peter struggled to find the right words and at the same time think how he could take her down.

“How, how did you find me?” Peter managed to get out as his body stiffened when she gave a cartwheel and landed in front of him, on the edge of the building.

She giggled as she stepped forward Peter, who barely gave a step backwards into the air. She was closer than ever, and Peter swallowed hard as she placed one of her nails in his chest, playing with it.

“I’ve been watching you, you seem like my type”, Black Cat whispered as she drew little hearts and strings on Peter’s chest. “A strong, polite and hot gentleman I could negotiate with”

Peter felt her getting more relax and knew this was the time to act.

“Then, I’m definitely not your type” Peter answered as he took a hold of her wrist and shot a web towards a wall in the door’s rooftop, his plan was to stick her up completely to the wall.

But as before, she had an advantage and as soon as he shot his web towards the door, she retaliated. It was different than most fights Peter had because she was simply smooth as anyone could be and he barely realized when she placed a hand on his shoulder and step over his knee. He even dared to say she was smoother than Natasha since, at this point, Peter was unaware until she managed to get off his grip on her wrist, climb over him and then push him on the ground while she did a backflip towards another rooftop.

Peter groaned as he hit the floor but quickly reacted as he shot another web and pushed himself into the other rooftop where Black Cat had jumped. When Peter landed, he didn’t saw her, and it was just an empty rooftop, he cursed under his breath. He had lost her, again.

But then he felt it, in one swift motion she catch his wrist as he turned around to see her behind him, grinning, biting her lower lip while she giggled her eyebrows.

“Oh, but I really think you are”, Black Cat whispered as she suddenly pushed him against a wall, flesh against flesh and pressed his wrist a bit harder than before.

From one second to another, blue sparks started to appear on his web shooter as Peter watched in disbelief. Ok, now he was pissed. He shook her grip on him and he quickly places one of his hands behind her back, attempting to push her into the floor and then cover her on web from his reminding web shooter.

“Okay this isn’t funny anymore” Peter whispered as he pushed with all his strength, thinking that she would fall on the floor.

But a hold on his arm quickly showed Peter she wasn’t following on his plan when his arm pushed her to a side she managed to do a backflip and they ended up in the same position, as if nothing had happened, except she now she had her hand -paw- on his chest, holding a small button and she pressed it like she meant it.

And Peter felt his muscles were starting to go numb, itching all over his body while blue sparks appeared all over his suit. Black Cat smiled, a playful look drawn on her face. She pressed her flesh against him and quickly separated his legs in one swift movement.

“I would really like to know the face under that mask, you must be eye candy”, Black Cat whispered as her hands quickly went behind his neck and her knee rose between his neck.

Peter couldn’t move, he simply couldn’t, and he felt like he was blushing more and more as each second passed almost at the same rate as his frustration with this lady. She was indeed beautiful, and he hated that he had been distracted by it and now this was just plainly uncomfortable with him as he felt self-conscious about their closeness, how she was moving on him.

“I have a girlfriend”, Peter growled as he tried to escape, to move but he couldn’t, and he couldn’t stop looking at those gleaming purple eyes that were looking at him keenly. “What do you want?”, he finally let out in a sigh.

Black Cat smirked as her lips ghosted over Peter’s lips that were behind the mask.

“Lucky her and like I say I want to do business with you”, she responded, her voice sounded like honey as she got little closer Peter and toyed with the mask. “Think about it stud, I do business and pleasure”

She gave a back handspring and Peter felt into the floor with a groan, he was feeling a lot more now, but he couldn’t exactly move like before.

As soon as he could get up, she was gone.

…

“And you didn’t care to tell me all this before?”, you glared at Peter with disbelief from the other side of the kitchen counter.

Peter opened his mouth for a moment and then shut it, he looked down. He really wanted to tell you, it had happened yesterday, but he was somehow nervous about how to bring out the subject, especially the part where he let her go.

You rolled your eyes, you couldn’t believe how Peter was acting. You knew he was polite and try to do the best thing in every case, but this was as if she had taken advantage of him which made your blood boil, even more, this was your boyfriend and your job, and no one would distract you from it.

“Okay that’s it, I’m going with you today and we are going to catch her”, you stated as you looked at Peter, a little bit softer than before.

This was Peter’s cue.

“We are going to babe”, Peter said to you with a smile as he climbed over the counter and landed directly at your side. “I love you”

He took a hold of your hand and pulled you into him, so you were looking directly at his lips and he placed his hand on your back and pulled you closer. He loved you, he loved you so much and he hated the idea of disappointing you or you getting somehow upset with him.

But you still couldn’t get over it, you still weren’t done being upset so when Peter pulled you in for a kiss, you quickly turned your head and his lips hit your cheek.

He whimpered.

“By the way, you need to talk to the press department about this, because it doesn’t look good”, you said before you placed your phone on his chest and quickly escaped his hold on you.

He closed his eyes and cursed under his breath, now he was really upset.

You watched Queen’s from the same rooftop that Peter had been the day before, it was actually one of his favorites. It had a great view of one of the main streets in Queens, which was perfect for him on an avenger level but even better as it had a movie cinema that he loved, Delmar’s, a pizza place that was declared the best by MJ and more. You had been at that rooftop countless times before as Tony allowed you to start going on patrols with Peter to Queens for you to have a little bit more practice in the real world and actually help more people. If it was a slow day, you would even get snacks and have a little picnic here.

But today, it wasn’t a slow day as you stoop up from the edge of the building, pressing your necklace so your suit would return to the capsule on it. You had been here approximately three hours and there was still nothing. Peter, meanwhile, was studying for his A.I. class that hadn’t been his best subject lately, not because it was actually hard for Peter but most of all because he had been missing class because of Spider-man duties.

You watched him as he had his mask folded on his face, just above the nose while he chewed on his pencil and typed quickly on his laptop. You smiled, you always thought he looked cute when he did that and you loved kissing him like that when you were on duty, it almost came with anticipation, Peter gazed at you and smiled, but you turned around -still a little bit upset about what had happened-. Peter rolled his eyes, you hadn’t kissed in what it seemed forever and well, Peter was all over you most of the time.

But then, he felt his spider senses going off on his right, he quickly pulled his mask down and packed his laptop on his bag.

“Y/N”, Peter said, and you turned around, watching him preparing. You tapped the charm on your necklace and quickly your suit began spreading all over your body, finally your mask closing. Peter ran towards you and remained on your side.

From one moment to another a shadow appeared on the rooftop, there she was.

“I liked our picture in the article, we went viral you know?” Black Cat grinned as her hips moved from side to side as she walked towards you.

Now, you more or less understood what had happened yesterday, there was something about her that just seemed intoxicating.

“I wouldn’t exactly say it went viral Cat” Peter spat out, as he backed a bit from her while she walked.

“Well well, what a surprise, you did what I asked and brought me the one I really needed to bargain with?” Black Cat said as her focus shifted on you, who had remained silence watching her every move. “And she’s a cutie”

Peter turned around to watch you as the nanotech disappear from your face, so you could really talk to her.

“Okay Cat, I’m running out of patience, could you maybe stop flirting with him and get to business?”, you hissed as you walked towards her calmly. “What do you want? Is Stark Industries' next target?”

Black Cat laughed loudly and with a touch of elegance as her paw went towards her chest.

“Oh no baby, I wouldn’t mess with you. But I’m having trouble thinking why you would want to help Oscorp or Hammer industries if you really knew what they were working in” Black Cat said as she did a handstand forward rolled and got closer to you, she licked her lips when she landed in front of you.

“What do you mean?”, you asked her as she started surrounding you, as her hips rolled and undulated. She stopped for a second as she looked at you and then her gaze went back to Peter and then back to you.

“Wait, does it bother you Stark? Me flirting with Spider-boy? And here I thought that TMZ had reported that you already had someone special”, she giggled as your eyes narrowed.

Being the daughter of Tony Stark didn’t come at a free price, you had been in the media since you were little and knew it was something you had to handle. Mostly, with the security your dad had placed on you, you never actually suffer a lot in your childhood, that was until he became Iron Man. Which not only double the security but the media attention as well. You tried to keep off of it but there were moments when you were caught on camera, going to a party or walking in New York, one of those moments was holding hands with Peter when you were visiting Coney Island one October afternoon. It had been taken by fans and it was mostly blurry, so you couldn’t really see Peter’s face but the pictures where telling: you two holding hands, a peck here and there, hugs, Peter’s hand a little too low on your back. It had been a whole thing since you needed privacy in order to keep avenging without fear that someone could come for Peter or Aunt May, a cease and desist letter was involved, hell it wasn’t pretty.

“Your answer it’s telling, so I guess I can make my move now” Black Cat continued as she placed a hand on your suit, you stiffened at her touch and watched her carefully.,

“What?”, Peter asked and as she turned around to answer, you made your move.

You squatted and with one swift movement you swiped Black Cat’s legs, she quickly fell into the floor and you stood up pointing at her with your repulsor, but before you could say anything she did a side split and quickly wrapped her legs onto your whole arm, she pulled you down and you fell on the floor. You quickly gave a rolled and ended up squatting while she stood up on the other side, your mask quickly appeared on your face as Peter shoot webs to her legs but failed multiple times as she gave full turn jumps and performed leaps until one of them caught. Peter smirked as he pulled her towards him, causing her to flop on the floor with a groan while you flew where she landed attempting to immobilize her hands with vibranium bracelets, but she threw something at you as you fire one of the bracelets and it restrained one of her arms.

While Peter reinforced it with more webs but soon both of you were distracted when blue sparks started to flash from your suit and it quickly began to dematerialize. Black Cat then threw one at Peter but instead of just affecting the suit, it sent electric shocks at Peter who fell into the ground, his legs giving up, the same feeling as the day before. Suddenly, without being able to get off the floor but with enough space to move, Black Cat quickly did a candlestick and then a split, wrapping your waist in her legs and then pulling you down over her. She giggled as you fell completely over her as you still tried to wrap your head with the fact that she had made your suit retracted, but you quickly tried to fight her off by taking a whole of her free hand and pulling it in the position that Nat had taught you in order to break arms, so you didn’t bat an eye when you heard her whimpered but before you could do anything, she did a V-sit and knocked both of your heads, leaving you a bit dizzy as she changed positions.

It happened too fast, even for Peter to somehow react a little and it was too late once he removed the pin from his chest. When he intended to fire his webs and immobilize her, she was already sat on your lap, hovering over you while she held both of your arms.

“Oh yeah, I swing both ways darling” Black Cat teased Peter as she looked down at your lips and then at your eyes.

You blushed a little bit and groaned as you tried to get her off you.

Peter tried to walk towards you, but Black Cat quickly reacted by placing her index finger, the one who had the longest nails, that actually looked like a knife on your neck, pressing a little bit and you felt like it was barely puncturing your skin.

“No no handsome, Stark and I have a business to talk,” Black Cat said as she shook her head and pressed a little bit harder, a drop of blood fell from your neck and you whimpered. Peter freeze at that moment, he felt his whole body stiffened and he clenched his fists, his breath became a little short and remained quiet. “Atta’ boy” Black Cat sang as she then focused on you, removing her nail from your neck.

You sighed, knowing it wasn’t going to be easy.

“How could you damage my tech or immobilize Spider-man? Our tech is impossible, my dad created those”, you said making the effort to sound reassuring. “Plus, Spider-man’s metabolism doesn’t give up that fast so how did you create shock waves that could put him down?”

“Now we are talking business”, Black Cat said as she giggled. “How do you think I got it? I know I’m smart but not tech smart, street smart you see. Talking of smart, I thought you were smarter to know never to trust competition”

“Oh, I am smart but I’m having trouble wrapping my head around why would Osborn and Hammer want the Avengers down unless they were creating …”, and then it hit you like a train.

“…something that the Avengers would definitely shut down as soon as they saw it.” Peter blurted out as he watched you, you furrowed your brows while you looked at Peter.

“Aw, seeing you two solving mysteries together is extremely cute. I guess you do have a special someone” Black Cat grinned as she finally let go of your arms and you simply laid there on the ground as you began thinking what in the hell both of your supposed allies where thinking about it, but your thoughts quickly dissipated as you watched her purple eyes gleaming at you.

“And what do you gain with telling me this?”, you wondered as you placed your hands on her legs.

She smirked and then lean down into you, her lips ghosting yours as her eyes never left yours.

“Call me a stan, especially for you Stark, but I support you guys more and anyone who is smart enough knows better than going against The Avengers”, Black Cat accepted, and you felt shorter of breath as you realized how close she was to you, you felt electricity on your body but then…

SLASH!

Peter broke the webs and deactivated the vibranium bracelet, releasing Black Cat quickly as she pulled you away from her, holding you tightly.

Black Cat rolled her eyes as she squatted in front of you, she smirked while watching Peter who was holding you defensively. If she could see him, he was definitely glaring at her but you, you were basically in awed because she, at the end of the day, gave you a major tip on a move these two assholes where planning.

“Easy, Spider-boy we were having a moment there”, Black Cat goaded as she looked at you with her purple eyes. “If you want to work with me, you know how to find me, my name is Felicia”

Quickly she did an arch and then stood up, she winked at you before performing another backflip and then falling between the buildings.

Peter finally relaxed and let you go while you stood up and tapped your com.

“H.A.P.P.Y, check out what happened to my suit and Peter’s please and get any dirt you can find in both Hammer and Osborn” you stated as you kept gazing at Queen’s view, not stopping to think about what Black Cat or well, Felicia had said.

“Was she hitting on you? Peter asked in disbelief behind you, wrapping you in his arms and you smirked. “Now you see what I mean!” Peter finally let out from behind you and your smile, pulling his mask up and pulling him in for a kiss.

Now you knew what he meant.

_______________________________________________________________________

TAG LIST: @spideylovin @eridanuswave @featuringcone9

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comeondowntosouthparkrpg-blog · 5 years

Text

Bebe Stevens

Is she still playing truth or dare in treehouses? Bebe has been accepted! Please submit your blog to the main, and a faceclaim to be featured on the main blog!

out of character info

Name/Alias: Grace

Pronouns: She/Her

Age: 23

Join Our Discord: Yes - [REDACTED]

Timezone: GMT

Activity: 8 (at least every other day)

Triggers: N/A

Password: jimmy can fast pass my ass

Character that you’re applying for: Bebe Stevens

Favourite ships for your character: Bebe/Chemistry!!

in character info

Full name: Barbara “Bebe” Stevens

Birthday: 11th August 2000

Sexuality, gender, pronouns: Female, She/Her, Bisexual

Age and grade: 18

Appearance:

Face of angel, body of a goddess, posture of a queen. That’s what she’s been told will get her far in life, and that’s what Bebe strives for. She’s slim build but – with thanks to frequent gym tips (for the Instagram likes) and rigorous cheerleader training – Bebe is toned, tanned and seriously strong. Her fair falls halfway down her back and, without proper styling, it’s a big nest of yellow frizz. Since hitting puberty, Bebe’s mom has enforced regular trips to the salon to tame her curls and highlight her tips, meaning only those really close to her have seen how much of a disaster it’s natural state is.

She has brown eyes, plump lips, and dresses largely in sportswear – crop tops, sports bras, leggings, shorts, high tops and hoodies. On nights out, she likes to ‘Go Ho’ with tight dresses and her signature red lipstick. Bebe is rarely seen without makeup; since entering High School, she’s grown to dislike her natural face – pale and imperfect, with dark patches under her eyes and freckles on her arms. Fake tan, foundation and fad diets are a necessity, if only to get her mom off her back.

Personality:

Bebe doesn’t let anyone see more than her outward appearance. Since childhood, discouraging comments about pursuing an education and becoming an independent career woman have twisted her dreams and shattered her personal image. She works hard at school, but often struggles more than her classmates and is too stubborn to ask for help. Bebe wants to follow Wendy to an Ivy League School, become a Marine Biologist, and change the world for women in STEM. Constant reality checks from failed exams and her mom’s patriarchal view of the world have made that goal unobtainable, so now she’s relying on Instagram fame, a rich college boy proposing, and being widowed at 35 with diamonds to spare.

Bebe is bold, to the point, and surprisingly witty. However, she often disguises her wit behind ditzy or vain observations and a vapid obsession with whatever’s fashionable at the time. She’s driven, though, and even with the world seeing her a certain way, she’d like to become a bigger, brighter person. At parties, she’s a loud personality; she likes drink, dick, drugs and dancing in any order, and isn’t afraid to announce it. She’s also a natural born leader. People are drawn to her, be that because she’s got great boobs and bad reputation, or because she knows how the world works (a little too much) and isn’t afraid to grab it by the balls.

History:

Deborah Thornton met Harvey Stevens when she was 17 and he was 25. Harvey was everything Deborah wanted: well-dressed, well-spoken, and heir to a successful stationary company. Her dating strategy was relentless; Deborah knew what she wanted, and she was damn well going to get it – but how was she going to keep it? That much was easy: have his baby.

Bebe knows she’s not a child born of love, but of circumstance. Her parents like each other well enough, but there’s no spark, just a dull-witted woman who dresses nicely for her boring, business-minded husband. Luckily, their poor parenting techniques have resulted in Bebe getting almost everything she asks for, and Deborah encourages that want-all attitude with pride. Bebe is the spitting image of her mom at 18: voluptuous body, sweet voice, and unwavering social status. Now all she needs is a husband.

The world has blessed Bebe, but as a ten-year-old, that wasn’t enough. She wanted everything she could get her hands on: all the boys, all the power, and all the shoes. Sure, stealing her dad’s gun and pointing at her best friend wasn’t her proudest moment, especially when it was just to keep her hands on Clyde fucking Donavon, but that decisiveness has remained to this day. She’ll dress slutty if she wants to, snort coke if she wants to, and get down if she wants to. Nonetheless, not even Deborah could have planned for Bebe’s independence. Bebe Stevens wants the world.

Sample paragraph:

There’s a riot going on outside, and Bebe can see most of her class in the middle of it. Knowing that lot, they probably started it. A few look worried, the majority bored (oh, a riot in South Park? Must be, like, a Tuesday) but they all know it’ll die down tomorrow when the next bullshit scenario rears its ugly head.

At least they’re involved, right? Bebe hasn’t been dragged into any non-squad drama for months. Sometimes, the guys will give Wendy a taste of their bizzare-o world, and Wendy will complain and call them assholes, but Bebe has this secret feeling that all those whacko, dangerous shenanigans might be kinda … fun.

Fuck. All she wants is the chance, just once, to take the wheel and get fucking WILD with it. Unfortunately, she has a reputation to uphold, an Instagram to keep active, and no one really trusts her after the whole, like, ‘pointing-a-gun-at-her-best-friend’ business.

Bebe blames some of it on society. That’s what Wendy would say to to cheer her up (and, thanks girl, but a pair of shoes or some ice cream would do a better job of it).

She blames the rest of it on her mom. Her mom, who’s dragged Bebe to yet another salon, because “you won’t marry rich with dry skin and crusty cuticles, honey.” Bebe’s fingers fucking ache after the trials they’ve been put through today, just for a French manicure and a couple gems on the thumbnail.

“Hey, mom,” she ventures, and her mom looks up from her copy of The Boob Job: Use your Tits to get Hitched to address her little girl.

Her mom only cares about two things: potential boyfriends (and how Bebe can use her body to bag them), and any girl-gang gossip that’ll make her feel young again.

“Can I go outside? I think I see Annie out there..”

“And ruin your nails, baby? What if that Clyde boy sees you acting like a common whore? Or Token, he’s rich, right?”

“Then they’ll be more likely to fuck me, right? Come on, mom. I can see robots out there.”

Bebe knows that the idea of her daughter becoming just another white-trash, Tomboy Tina terrifies Deborah to the core. But they’re in South Park, and the alternative options are pretty slim.

“Fine,” her mom says, “but I want you to get three good selfies and at least one date out of it, you here? Tell them you’re a cheerleader, they like that. And look out for college boys - they’re smart.”

This town is tiny and suffocating, Bebe wants to say, they all know I’m a fuckin cheerleader. But instead she says, “sure mom, whatever, kisses,” and bolts out the door, wondering if she’ll be brave enough, today, to break a nail.

Head canons:

Bebe still has her fluffy white cat, Thumper, who she adores, even if half of his fur has gone and his legs don’t work anymore. Deborah hates the thing, but Harvey still makes sure its fed if Bebe’s away.

Bebe has some lingering drug issues. She rarely goes out now without dropping some MDMA or a line of coke, and she sometimes sneaks out at night to smoke a joint at Stark’s pond. It’s got the point that she thinks it’s a necessity to be the ultimate party girl, and she’s got no plans to stop anytime soon. It’s what Paris Hilton would have wanted.

Bebe has MAD body-image issues and will not let anyone see her without her makeup on. The only exceptions are Wendy and her dad.

Anything else: nope, nada!

#bebe stevens #accepted #submission

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whereareroo · 3 years

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WHO KNEW?

WF THOUGHTS (7/12/21).

From when I was 10 until I was 18, I was a big sports fan. I followed a bunch of teams and I knew all of the statistics. Those days are gone.

Starting when I was 18, and until I was about 42, I stopped followed sports. I tend to be compulsive. In those years, I didn't have time to keep up on all of the sports news and all of the statistics. Life was a blur of jobs, studies, marriage, and young kids. I didn't feel like I could follow sports competently, so I didn't follow sports at all.

When I was 42, Child #2 was 10. He was heavily into sports. Whether I wanted to or not, I was knee-deep in sports for about 10 years. When he left the nest, my interest in sports immediately declined.

Today, I don't consider myself a sports fan. I don't think I've been a sports fan at any time during the last 10 years. I would say that I'm a sports "dabbler." I try to stay minimally informed. I read some sports stuff every day, but I really don't pay attention.

To stay minimally informed, I follow the basic sports news and two sports websites. Today, Site #1 had a headline about the upcoming Sports Illustrated Swimsuit edition. That seemed weird to me, so I skipped the article. When I got to Site #2, it also had a similar headline. If both sites were following this, I figured that I better take a quick glance.

Apparently, some woman named Megan Thee Stallion is going to be the cover girl. The choice is controversial.

The articles assumed that the readers would recognize the name Megan Thee Stallion. Not me! I didn't have a clue! Thus, I could not really understand the controversy.

I did a little digging. I like to keep my readers up to speed, and my hope was that I could tell you something about Megan Thee Stallion. I can't tell you much. I had to stop digging because I was afraid that I'd have to poke my eyes out and shove a knitting needle through my eardrums.

Megan Thee Stallion is a popular rapper. I guess that's why she's never hit my radar screen. Because she's tall (5'10") and big, she's been called "Stallion" ever since she became a teenager. In certain Texas neighborhoods, where she's from, many people apparently use the word "stallion" to describe tall and voluptuous women. Who knew? Is that politically correct?

As you can tell from her chosen nickname, Megan is a very proud Stallion. She has a reputation for putting her assets on full display. Remember when only wholesome models made the cover of Sports Illustrated? I guess the world had changed since my subscription ran out.

I was hoping to give you some insights into MTS's music. I wouldn't dare. Mrs. Blogcensor would immediately delete this post. I looked at the lyrics for her new rap, called "Girls In The Hood." In addition to several recitations of the n-word, the first 12 lines refer to female dogs, sex acts, prostitutes, and male genitals. That seems to be her standard stuff. I clicked on the lyrics for a song called "Ain't Equal." The chorus is filled with the n-word, references to female private parts, sex acts, and female dogs. They call this music?

Sometimes I think that I should broaden my horizons. I think that I should pay more attention to sports. I think that I should pay more attention to music. But if this is music, and if stuff like this is covered in the sports news, I think I'm totally fine with narrow horizons. I'm not missing anything.

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thecaffeinebookwarrior · 7 years

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Hello, I am trying to avoid falling into the pit fall that is trying to write a female character who is very in control of her sexuality and also dresses in fairley reveling way, without objectifing her. She dresses like she does because she wants it to be very clear to every one around her that it is not a matter of whether not she could punt you through a wall but rather how far you would go after that. and she is well out of the 'confused' period of her life, and into the 'proud to be me' .

Hello! For the purposes of this response, I’m going to assume you’re a (heterosexual?) male author, in which the first step I’d recommend for writing about this is to consult as many women as possible about it. Seeing as I am a women, I’d say you’re ahead of the game in this department.

Next, here are some personal tips and rules of thumb for writing about sexual female characters without sexualizing them:

1. Treat them as people.

Regardless of how promiscuous, attractive, and sexual your character is, she will have defining traits beyond that. Focus on your character’s personality before you describe her appearance. Spend some time working out her idiosyncrasies, quirks, likes and dislikes, that don’t involve sex. Make sure she’s a well-rounded character before you even think about focusing on her sexuality; her appearance should be an afterthought, not a defining feature.

This goes for characters of all genders: regardless of how stunningly attractive they’re emphasized to be, regardless of the author’s relentless descriptions of their “rock hard abs” or “ample breasts,” the characters I find most attractive are invariably the ones with a strong and well-defined personality.

Basically, regardless of how sexy your character is, she is, first and foremost, a person, with a fully developed personality. Remember that, and you’ll be several steps ahead of your fellow male authors.

2. Make sure she’s dressed practically and appropriately.

Revealing clothes are great. I’ll show cleavage like nobody’s business. But don’t fall into the false empowerment purgatory of ridiculously revealing clothes that are neither appropriate to the situation nor practical for what your character is doing.

For instance, if your character is kicking ass and taking names, she should not be doing it like this:

If your character is setting out for a fight, avoid gratuitous cleavage, showing too much skin, and basically anything that looks like it could just as easily be exhibited in a Victoria’s Secret ad.

Some more practical options for your female characters include full-body spandex (like male superheroes have been wearing since spandex was invented), cargo pants and tank tops, and athletic-wear. I also personally enjoy basically any character in full-body latex or leather, and it’s totally not because its a personal kink of mine.

In a quiet, controlled, dress up-y setting, your character can wear the revealing clothes she prefers, but there are some basic guidelines for this as well:

3. Stay away from gratuitously focusing on breasts.

“My full breasts swelled invitingly over the lacy rim of my sports bra.” “Her small breasts swung loosely beneath her poncho.” “She purred as she contentedly patted her young breasts dry.”

So many male writers do this, and it never fails to grate on me. Even if your character is wearing the most cleavage-bearing, Jessica Rabbit-esque getup imaginable, she will not be thinking about her boobs 24/7, especially if it’s told in the first person.

The only time I’m actively thinking about my breasts is when I’m thinking about how much they’re fucking annoying me. Right now, for example, I’m thinking about them because all my bras are in the wash and the only one available was one of my mom’s sports bras, and it feels like a goddamn binder.

Do I love them? Am I happy to have them? Yes, but sometimes they fucking suck, man.

On that note, however, the feeling of taking off a bra is heavenly, and I do occasionally like putting my hands on them for no particular reason.

If you want to emphasize that your character is physically beautiful, and she’s wearing revealing clothing, here are a few body parts that I wish authors would pay more attention to:

“The lean, well-defined muscles of her back rippled like liquid.”

“The slit up the side of her evening gown showed off a smooth expanse of thigh.”

“Her hair was braided to one side, calling attention to her slender neck and sharp jawline and showing off her toned shoulders.”

This might be the queer gal in me talking, but I’d say that’s a definite improvement.

4. Allow her to have physical flaws.

“Her lovely sloping waist gave way to voluptuous hips, perfectly mirroring the ample roundness of her bosoms. Luscious locks of silky blond hair framed her heart-shaped face and high cheekbones, accentuating lush lips and a petite button nose, large eyes framed with lush lashes.”

This is a condensed version of the descriptions I’ve read. Authors, particularly male authors, will take up entire pages describing flawlessly beautiful female characters that probably couldn’t exist outside of a magazine.

Don’t do this. Even if your character is stunningly gorgeous, it’s her physical idiosyncrasies that will make her memorable. Give her a honking laugh, a birthmark, a scar, one crooked tooth that stands out in an otherwise perfect smile.

Moreover, as a general rule of thumb, stay away from cutesy descriptors “petite button noses,” “doe eyes,” “lush, long lashes,” “doll-like,” “porcelain skin,” and basically anything else that sounds as though you’re describing a children’s toy. One or two characters can have these features, but when every female character sounds like a porcelain doll, it gets tiresome.

Confession time: I like to endow my male characters with these traits just to throw people. A lot of my male main characters will be described as having large, doe-like eyes with long lashes, lush pink lips, delicate features, and/or basically everything else cute and “feminine” with which female characters are frequently endowed.

I feel like it’s quietly subversive, because there’s a lot of pressure for male characters to constantly be masculine (if not, it’s usually presented as comedy relief), just as it’s customary for female characters to consistently be effortlessly cute, delicate, and feminine.

Your female characters will not always be cute, delicate, and feminine. Even the most gorgeous people in the world will occasionally wake up with static-y, bird’s nest hair and dark raccoon circles under their eyes. They get body odor, they go to the bathroom, they get bad breath, they get unsightly rashes, have allergic reactions, get bug bites.

Granted, you probably won’t need to describe that in gratuitous detail, but you need to realize that women aren’t goddesses. If your character has perfect makeup, she’s put a lot of time and energy into learning how to do perfect makeup, applying it every morning, et cetera. If she has a perfect body, she probably works out a lot, eats a steadily healthy diet, and/or has some pretty perfect genes. Traditional femininity is hard work; it isn’t simply a natural state of being for women and girls.

Basically, it all goes back to point one: treat your female characters as people.

5. Be open to criticism.

This applies for writing all marginalized groups to which you don’t belong. I can and do write characters of color, for example, but I need to be open to criticism from actual people of color for when I’m doing it wrong.

If you’re straight (which I am not), you can and should write queer characters, but you need to be open to the critiques of actual queer people when they tell you how to improve.

And you (and again, I’m only assuming you’re male here, as it isn’t specified) can and should write female characters, but you need to keep an open ear to real women if they say you aren’t doing it right.

This isn’t personal, and it doesn’t mean you’re a bad person; what a lot of people need to understand on this website (and the internet in general) is that we will never reach a state of total ideological purity, just as we will never understand the experience of groups to which we do not belong.

Accept it, commit to the journey of bettering yourself as a person and as a creator, and realize that criticism is not a personal insult to you; it’s a means by which you can grow.

I really hope this helps!!

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gilbirda · 7 years

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Human courting is confusing. Chapter 14

I decided to use the “official” fem!Neuro that appears on the manga, when talking to one of the Fingers in the Sicks arc, when he says that if he were a woman he would convince his victims to give him all their money and donate their organs. Yep, that’s our Neuko.

[FF.net][Ao3]

First Chapter |<< Previous Chapter | Next Chapter >> | Last Chapter

Day 14: Genderswapped.

The next few days Neuro embarked in a furious quest to contact Hell without having to pass through. He was out the entire day, searching for the few weak demons that exiled themselves in the World Above for protection, setting aside his hunger until he wasn't able to go on anymore; and then he would search for Yako and drag her around the city, now furiously searching for any mystery to satiate his need. Yako knew him and his tastes, and those mysteries weren't enough for him, their taste too bland for him, but the demon didn't complain about it for once.

While she appreciated the effort he put in keeping her alive and his compromise with their courting (she was still weirded out by the thought of actually dating Neuro), it was pretty lonely and sad without him around. Yeah, Godai sometimes passed by to see how things were going or if the monster had showed his face in the office; and yeah, Neuro kissed her deeply and long enough to make up for the absence, but still. The thing they had, whatever it was called, was too fresh and new and she needed time to process it. Him not being with her was good and bad at the same time: while it gave her enough space to sort out her own feelings and emotions about the situation, she still needed him around. It was then when Yako realised that she missed him, his voice and his warmth beside her, more than she ever did the three years of wait.

Yako sighed for the tenth time as she scrolled down on the page she was checking. It was about bird behaviour and mating seasons. Yeah, that morning she remembered her curiosity about what could have been Neuro signs of the courting, as she couldn't remember anything besides him being "weird". So yeah, here she was alone in the office, again, listening to the soft tap tap of Akane's typing on her computer and reading about parrots' courtship rituals.

"So, they bite, huh…"she said as the picture of a pretty and colorful parrot appeared on the screen. It was nothing like Neuro, of course, but the mental image of the bossy demon posing for a picture in a golden cage like this yellow bird was enough to bring a tiny laugh to the blonde. "Mark territory… I guess. Most animals do," she continued, looking sideways to Akane, who wiggled a bit in agreement. "Nesting?" Yako snorted. As if she would let Neuro make a mess of their office, more than he usually does with his hidden traps. "And the last thing… Feather plucking. Yeah. Because there are so many feathers laying around. Pff."

Angry, she closed the window and threw her head back in exasperation. This was stupid. Neuro was a demon, not a pet, and it was absurd to compare him to a earthly parrot; heck, he didn't even spend a second in his bird form anymore. She couldn't recall any moment where he was on his other form (his true form, she reminded herself) after he revealed himself to her so long ago, so she was just being silly. And kinda lonely.

"Am I just being stupid, right?" she asked to the braid on the wall, sighing. The screeching of the marker on the whiteboard answered her and she turned her head to see Akane's message.

[You are just tired. Neuro must be returning very soon and you could ask him yourself about these things. Rest for a bit.]

"Yeah, that sounds just perfect," she agreed and turned off the computer before heading to the door.

***

As she settled on her bed for a quick afternoon nap, Yako thought about the "signs that your parrot is in mating season" again, trying to fit it with Neuro's behaviour. As she slowly drifted to sleep, she imagined him doing a weird mating dance like those colorful birds on TV.

In her dream she felt her body heavy and awkward, like she was walking through some kind of liquid and gravity was acting weird. In the distance, she heard a voice calling for her and despite not recognising it she walked to it, hoping to find sense in any of this.

What she found was definitely not expected, as a very voluptuous woman waited for her seated gracefully on a leather sofa in a white room with no walls. Her long legs crossed, showing a lot of skin as her skin-tight black dress had slits on the sides, and expensive looking heels on her feet. She would be as tall as Aya, Yako thought, if the gorgeous woman stood up barefoot.

But it was her face what somehow made her sick to her stomach. Framed by perfectly combed black bangs (adorned with his signature yellow triangle beads) was the more slender and feminine face of her torturer.

"My, my," the woman smiled showing all of her pointed teeth. Yako gulped, fearing for her life. "Look who's here. Troubled about something?" she said in the voice that was and wasn't Neuro's clearly mocking her.

"Eh…" Yako was going to say something, but her own voice spooked her. It was way more deep that she remembered, so she touched her neck to confirm her suspicions. Indeed, where it should be smooth and soft there was an Adam's apple. She was a man. And in front of her was the female version of Neuro. Now she was sure she was in a nightmare.

"Cat got your tongue?" the woman stood up and walked seductively to her, a predatory look on her emerald eyes. "If you are wondering, yes, this is a dream and I'm a product of your imagination. Surprise!"

The detective felt like she wanted to sit down, but the leather sofa disappeared, leaving her alone in the same white room where she found the she-demon. This was so disturbing in so many ways.

"You seem to have troubles in your mind, darling," she said in a sweet voice that gave Yako the same upset stomach that the original Neuro does. "I think I could help you."

"Why?"

"Because I am a product of your mind, silly!" she smacked her (his) shoulder with a bit too much force, throwing Yako to the ground. Yep, this was Neuro allright. "I may not be real, but I have access to information your unconscious mind had gathered about your lovey-dovey mate-to-be demon. And I know you are having troubles lately." Well, I wouldn't exactly call him like that on my right mind.

"Very well. What can you say to me to help?"

"Uh-huh. It comes with a price, you know," Neuko, as Yako decided to call the blonde for now, was smiling again. He pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Just perfect.

"Ok, what do you want?" it could be dangerous to say that to the real Neuro, but she was practically herself, right? The smile broadening told her that it didn't mean that it wouldn't hurt.

"I want you to kiss me. And accept that you are into kinky stuff."

"What!?" Yako couldn't believe it. "I am not-"

"Yeah, right. Good try in lying to yourself, honey," the nicknames were starting to give her headaches. "Say it. That you like what he does to you."

Yako pressed her lips together, midway between embarrassed and angry. She was not into BDSM or shibari, but she really wanted to hear what her subconscious had to say in the matter. With a final sigh, she admitted what she was, I must repeat, not. "Alright, I'm into kinky stuff and," he added when Neuko glared at him, "I like what Neuro does to me. Happy?"

"Very!"

"Now answer me."

"Okay," she smiled again and approached Yako, swaying her broad hips with every step. "I'll tell you what you need to know: Neuro loves you, Yako. More than he is aware about. He would be completely lost without you and if you don't love him back or accept his proposal, he would be utterly destroyed," Neuko was much too serious while saying this, making him listen her every word. "And he had been courting you way before you knew about this. Don't you remember every time he said that you were his slave? The poor demon was just too young and full of himself to realise it."

Yako gasped. Was this what she really thought about the matter? That Neuro loved her? She wanted to scream, feeling cheated. Neuko smiled a knowing smile as if she knew what was crossing his mind, something that, in fact, she could.

"Give him time, Yako, and things will fall into their right places." A more legit smile formed on her full lips, and she leaned in until Neuko kissed his cheek softly. "And you must wake up now. He needs you."

"What?" Yako asked, but the white room, and everything inside it, started to melt.

Yako, the real Yako, woke up on her room. It was now dark outside and a chilly breeze came in through an opened window she remembers closing before going to bed. A warmth behind her gave away the demon's presence on her bed, and she turned to see that Neuro was there with his eyes closed, sleeping.

He was kinda cute, she thought, and somewhat innocent when sleeping. No malice, no tortures, just his bare and smooth face. As she was going to caress his cheek, the demon abruptly opened his eyes and jumped to the human, and for a moment the blonde thought that he was angry at being awakened.

"Yako!" he said, his a bit too loud voice ricocheting in the silent room, "They are coming for us!"

"What?" she asked not know what the heck was happening. "Who is?"

"The capybaras! They are going to eat me." It was then that she realised that he had a nightmare as well. Yako blinked.

Wow. So… unexpected. Neuro didn't usually show his weaknesses and that he was clinging to her right now, when he had something as mundane as a nightmare, brought some warmth to her heart. She thought about Neuko's words asking her to be patient and understanding. Maybe this was what she meant: if she waited for Neuro to strip every mask and defensive mechanism he had, he would come to love her as she expected him to. Maybe he was more human than she thought.

And in that exact same moment, like he wanted to prove that he wasn't, the demon chose to bite her on the shoulder.

#mtnn #majin tantei nougami neuro #neuro nogami #katsuragi yako #fanfic #neuyako #gil writes

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bughead-fic-request · 7 years

Text

Girls On Film: Part 2

Summary: After insulting every major supermodel in the business, world renowned fashion photographer, Jughead Jones, is paired with up-and-coming model, Betty Cooper.

Words: 3,000

Warnings: Swearing, drinking, mentions of war, sexy times.

A/N: I know nothing about the modelling/photography world. Most of my knowledge comes from America’s Next Top Model. Also, I have nothing against any of the models mentioned in this story.

Part 1 is here and this is also on AO3.

This is for @birdlovesafish

I also edited this myself so prepare for errors.

“Sports Illustrated called and they want you for the cover of the swimsuit issue.” Betty’s agent, Kevin Keller, explained over the phone.

“Aren’t I a little bony?” She asked but what she really meant was flat chested. She was blessed to have full C cup breasts considering how svelte her frame was but she was no where near the Sports Illustrated levels of busty.

“The photographer asked for you.” Kevin said.

Betty was in the middle of gathering her text books, her phone pressed between her shoulder and ear. “Which photographer?” She asked slamming them down on her desk, stirring her roommate.

“Jughead Jones.” Betty could hear Kevin smirking through the phone. She told him about the incident she had with Jughead.

It had been four months since her shoot with the famous photographer and she had a surge in bookings. High end shoots working with the Hadid sisters, Jordan Dunn, Lily Aldridge and Miranda Kerr. She scored a full page in Harper's Bazaar when they did a profile on ten models to watch. They put her in pointe shoes, a flowing Zuhair Murad dress and made her dance. There was a tiny blurb about her under a title that read ‘The Face. The Body. The Blonde.’. She was even featured in a Zayn music video as “The Girl” after Gigi recommended Betty to her pop star boyfriend.

Everyone wanted to work with the model who made Jughead Jones great again.

“When, where, how much?” She asked.

“You’ll have to leave in two days, it’s in Aruba and they are going to give you $25,000. It’s two days work, you’ll be in Aruba for three.”

Betty knew it would be huge for her career if she was on the cover of Sports Illustrated. She would have huge runway, editorial and swimsuit jobs under her belt. She could continue to pay for school, complete it at her own pace and have a huge chunk of savings to fall back on. Having a famous photographer in her back pocket could be beneficial as well.

She couldn't lie to herself, she had been thinking of Jughead a lot over the four months they had been apart. There was something about him that rooted itself in her mind and would not let go. She wasn't sure if it was his handsome face, a face that could have found a place on the other side of the camera or if it was his confidence. It could have been fact that he was very good at his job or the flashes of vulnerability he showed her when she started to critique him and his work. She still felt bad about what she had said and wanted to apologize. Everything that had happened to her in the whirlwind four months had happened because of him.

“If they can pay me $50,000, I’ll do it.” She said hanging up the phone and heading to class.

A day later Kevin got back to her with a confirmation that they were willing to pay her the $50,000.

The day after that she was on a plane flying into Aruba’s capital Oranjestad.

She was put up in a suite in a five star hotel and was told she was allowed to order and watch whatever she’d like. Sports Illustrated was covering everything.

She was set to meet Jughead and the two other models she would be photographed with, Emily Ratajkowski and Imaan Hammam, for dinner.

Betty slipped into a white sundress and headed down to the hotel’s restaurant. Jughead was already there when she arrived.

“Hey.” He said starting to get up but stopped when she began to shake her head.

“Don’t stand, please.” She smiled awkwardly as she took her seat. She tried desperately to think of something to say. “Thanks for recommending me for this. It’ll be really good for my career.” She finally managed.

“You’re the best model I’ve ever worked with other than the greats; Cindy, Linda, Naomi, Gisele. It’s not fair the new wave get all the attention just because their moms were famous models. Sometimes the photographers have to fight for the fresh faces, the ones that are models, not just beautiful girls.” He rubbed the back of his head.

“Wait, how old are you? You didn’t shoot Cindy Crawford and Naomi Campbell in their hay-day, did you?” Betty asked her brow furrowed together.

He laughed. “No, no, I’m thirty-three. I did a shoot with those women for Vogue celebrating the first true supermodels though.”

They sat in silence for a couple of moments until the waiter came around and placed a dirty martini down in front of her. She couldn’t help but smile and took a deep breath in. “I just want to say I’m sorry, I was so rude the last time you saw me.” Betty said. “All the anger I felt over the things you said to me years ago and the hurt you caused my roommates just boiled over. It’s not fair. They’re grown women, they made a choice.” She shook her head.

Jughead sighed. “I really had no intent of sleeping you that night.”

Betty raised her eyebrows.

Jughead sighed. “That’s not what I mean, you are beautiful and I’m very attracted to you but I wanted you to come over so I could show you some of my other photography. I didn’t start off in fashion.” He ran his hand through his dark hair.

Betty bit her lip. “Maybe another time you can show me. I would love to see it.” She said taking a sip of her drink.

“Can I ask you another question?” He asked tugging at his white dress shirt.

“Shoot.”

“Why are you a model? You seemed so unimpressed by the whole shebang.”

“I’m doing this to pay for school. I’m going part-time at Columbia. I’m also saving so when I become too old for this work I have a nice nest egg. I want to be able to live a quiet life without worrying.” She shrugged.

“Is that why you asked for more money?” Jughead asked. “For school?”

Betty’s face flushed. “That’s part of it but I kinda asked for more money to piss you off, make you fight with SI to get me.” She smirked.

“That $25,000 came out of my pay.” He admitted.

Betty’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think they would take it from you-”

He shook his head. “Its fine. You deserve it and I was willing to do anything to get you to agree.”

She couldn’t fight the smile that spread across her lips. She looked up at him and met his gaze. He as looking at her like she was the only person in the room, dazzled by her presence. “What are you studying?” He asked, changing the subject.

“Finance.” She took a sip of her drink.

“That sounds really boring.”

“It is but it’s practical and with the world the way it is, you can’t just follow your dreams or your passions. I know I can’t model forever and finance will always be a profession.”

“Do you have a dream?” He asked her.

She smiled. “I want to live in a quiet little farmhouse with someone I love and a hundred dogs.” She confessed.

“That’s a doable dream. All you need to do is find someone you love.”

“And a farmhouse. And a hundred dogs.” She looked up at him with a grin pulling at her lips.“What’s your dream?” She questioned.

“I’m living it.” She said with a smirk.

“This is all you want?”

“Maybe one day I want to fall in love with someone who accepts me, someone who matches me. I just haven’t met her yet.” He took a sip of his scotch. “Until I do, this life suites me just fine.”

“Are you type to fight against love?” She inquired.

He gazed at her. “I hope I’m not. I hope after everything I’d be the type of guy who would go for it.”

Betty gave him a reassuring smile and place her hand over his without thinking. He looked down at it and then back at her, mild shock on his face caused by the tender gesture.

At that moment Emily and Imaan showed up and Betty pulled her hand away. The four of them shared a meal, drank more than they should have and discussed what the next three days held.

The next morning Betty was up at 5am to get into hair and makeup. She spent the rest of the day frolicking around in barely there bikinis with Emily and Imaan in crystal clear waters and white sand beaches.

The next day Jughead shot Emily and Imaan separately and devoted the entire last day to shooting Betty. It was an easy shoot.

“Just be the girl next door.” He winked at her as he brought the camera back up to his eye.

“I thought I needed to be sexy.” Betty said, her fingertips raking through the surface of the water.

“The girl next door is sexy. We all want to get with the good girl we see dancing in bra and panties through our bedroom window.” He snapped a few more photos. “The voluptuous girl with the great mouth may be the fantasy but you’re the dream.”

Betty looked down, blushing, a small smile pulling at her lips. Jughead snapped another photo and looked down at the screen. “Beautiful.” He whispered looking back up at her. They made eyes at each other until a PA cleared their throat snapping both out of their daze and they continued with the rest of the shoot.

That night Betty paced her room deciding what to do before they left on different flights the next morning. She was deciding whether or not she wanted to make her relationship with Jughead a little less professional.

She called down to the front desk and ordered a bottle of red wine. She put on light wash jeans short and a white tank top with no bra and headed down the hall to his room, took a deep breath and knocked.

He was shirtless and in a pair of well worn jeans which hung off his hips when he answered the door. “Betty.” He said with an undertone of shock. “What are you doing here?” He asked.

She showed him the bottle. “Do you want to show me your photographs? Unless you’re busy.”

“No.” He answered almost too quickly. “Come in.”

She took a step into his hotel room which was nicer than hers. She bit back her annoyance with Sport Illustrated and walked over to the small kitchen, looking for a corkscrew. She uncorked the wine and poured them both a glass. “You wanna show me some of your work before you got into fashion? I have to be honest, I’ve only see your work in the industry.”

“Fashion is where the money is. Time loves a gut wrenching photo but they certainly don’t want to pay for it.” He walked over to the couch were his laptop was open. “I got sick of risking my life. It wasn’t for nothing but I guess I’m a selfish person. I decided photographing beautiful women was better than waking up every morning wondering if I was gonna die.”

She sat down beside him, curling her feet under her butt, leaning towards him.

He opened a folder and showed her photo after photo he took while he was in the Middle East shooting the Iraq War. “I was 18 when the war started and I was too cowardly to be a solider so I decided to go and document it.”

He showed her photos of soldiers silhouetted in smoke, soldiers in action jumping from helicopters, helping the wounded onto trucks and planes. He also had photos of an Iraqi child crying while walking through rubble lined streets, a woman holding her dead son and civilians cowering in corners, weeping.

They were beautiful but he didn’t shy away from showing the horrors of war and he didn’t glorify one side over the other. He showed what horrors each side committed against the other and sympathized the the noncombatants caught in the middle.

He flew past one photo and she stopped him, putting her hand on his arm. “Wait, what’s that one?” She asked placing her glass on the table and leaning forward.

Jughead swallowed hard. “Um, I was stationed with a platoon and we were in area of Iraq that was going to be bombed by the U.S. that day. The only problem was no one told us. By the time we figured it out the only thing we could do was run for cover.” He rubbed his face. “We found a small crawlspace close to the ground and hoped for the best. The soldiers were freaking out knowing that we were probably going to die. So I took one last photo and this was it.” The photo contained six soldiers with their eyes closed tight, half of them were praying. Some had tears running down their cheeks. You could see the brick at their back, the low ceiling above them and it was nearly pitch black. The only thing lighting the area was the flash from the camera. “We were there for a day and when we emerged ours was the only building, for as far as I could see, with any structural integrity.” He leaned back. “I stayed for two more months, caught a ride home and started doing fashion.”

“That’s an insane story.” Betty exhaled after holding her breath the entire time he told it.

“It might be why I’m so hard on my models. They get paid so much to do so little and they do nothing but complain. Even more so now and they aren’t even good at it. It’s all bored expressions and dead eyes. I’m so sick of photographing the Hadid sisters and Kendal Jenner.” He rubbed his eyes and fell back against the sofa.

She smacked him lightly on the shoulder. “Hey, the Hadid’s have been kind to me.” She grinned. “Is there anything you still like photographing?” She asked.

He looked over at her. “I love photographing you.” He answered without thinking and mentally cursed himself for using the word love.

Betty couldn’t help herself when she leaned in and pressed a kiss onto his lips. It was sweet and chaste at first, both testing the waters to see if the chemistry the both thought was there actually existed. Finally Jughead cupped Betty’s face pulling her close to him, encouraging her to straddle him which she eagerly did.

She weaved her hands through his hair as she rolled her hips into his searching for much needed friction.

He moaned before parting from her. “Aren’t you afraid you’re just going to become another one of the girls I’ve photographed?” He asked placing kisses down her long neck.

“I’m not too worried.” She breathed. “Something tells me I’m not going to be able to shake you.” She laughed before looking down and capturing his mouth with hers. She ran her tongue over his bottom lip and he met her in the middle, their tongues rolling over the other.

Betty took her shirt off and tossed it on the couch beside them.

His hands went to her breasts palming them in his large, slightly calloused hands. He lightly rolled and pinched her nipples between his fingers. She mewled at the contact as her nails dragged down his muscular arms. He lowered his head to take a nipple into his mouth, pulling and teasing it with his teeth and tongue.

She leaned forward, panting from his touch as her hands went for his jeans button. “Jug, I want you.” She purred, unzipping his pants as far as she could.

He lifted her off of him and stood, running into the other room and running back with a metallic square in his hand. He let his pants drop to the floor leaving him completely naked and on display. “Can I take your picture?” She giggled as she stared at his long erect cock.

He grinned but blocked her when she went to reach for his camera. “You can take a thousand pictures of me later but now, now I need you.” He said pulling her shorts off her long legs leaving her just as naked as he was.

He rolled the condom over his length and positioned himself in between her legs, sinking himself into her wet core. She gasped at the sensation, wrapping her legs around his waist, wanting him to go deeper. Jughead built a rhythm, getting faster with each penetration until he was pounding into her. The angle he was at allowed him to rub up against her clit with each thrust, bringing them both to the edge of orgasm.

“Jug!” Betty choked out as she came, clenching around him as she dissolved into the pleasure of her climax.

Jughead joined her moments later as he bit her shoulder.

They were still for a few moments before Jughead pulled out and collapsed on the couch beside her. “You’re heading back to New York tomorrow, right?” He asked, his breathing still erratic.

She nodded. “I have class and probably a few other shoots to do. I have you to thank for that.” She laughed looking over at him.

He shrugged. “I have a place in the city. If you need a quiet place to study, you are welcome to it. You can crash there. I mean having seven roommates can’t be easy.” He was rambling.

“Are you going to be there?” She asked.

“I was thinking of changing some things up, I’ve been in L.A. for too long.” He looked over at her and grinned. “And if my muse is going to be in New York, then New York is were I need to be.” He leaned over and kissed her, picking her up and caring her into the bedroom.

#riverdale #betty cooper #jughead jones #Bughead #bughead fanfiction #bughead smut #fan fiction #malmo722 #jughead x betty

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justforbooks · 7 years

Photo

August 5, 1962, Marilyn Monroe is found dead

On August 5, 1962, movie actress Marilyn Monroe is found dead in her home in Los Angeles. She was discovered lying nude on her bed, face down, with a telephone in one hand. Empty bottles of pills, prescribed to treat her depression, were littered around the room. After a brief investigation, Los Angeles police concluded that her death was “caused by a self-administered overdose of sedative drugs and that the mode of death is probable suicide.”

Marilyn Monroe was born Norma Jean Mortenson in Los Angeles on June 1, 1926. Her mother was emotionally unstable and frequently confined to an asylum, so Norma Jean was reared by a succession of foster parents and in an orphanage. At the age of 16, she married a fellow worker in an aircraft factory, but they divorced a few years later. She took up modeling in 1944 and in 1946 signed a short-term contract with 20th Century Fox, taking as her screen name Marilyn Monroe. She had a few bit parts and then returned to modeling, famously posing nude for a calendar in 1949.

She began to attract attention as an actress in 1950 after appearing in minor roles in the “The Asphalt Jungle” and “All About Eve.” Although she was onscreen only briefly playing a mistress in both films, audiences took note of the blonde bombshell, and she won a new contract from Fox. Her acting career took off in the early 1950s with performances in “Love Nest” (1951), “Monkey Business” (1952), and “Niagara” (1953). Celebrated for her voluptuousness and wide-eyed charm, she won international fame for her sex-symbol roles in “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes” (1953), “How to Marry a Millionaire” (1953), and “There’s No Business Like Show Business” (1954). “The Seven-Year Itch” (1955) showcased her comedic talents and features the classic scene where she stands over a subway grating and has her white skirt billowed up by the wind from a passing train. In 1954, she married baseball great Joe DiMaggio, attracting further publicity, but they divorced eight months later.

In 1955, she studied with Lee Strasberg at the Actors Studio in New York City and subsequently gave a strong performance as a hapless entertainer in “Bus Stop” (1956). In 1956, she married playwright Arthur Miller. She made “The Prince and the Showgirl” - a critical and commercial failure - with Laurence Olivier in 1957 but in 1959 gave an acclaimed performance in the hit comedy “Some Like It Hot.” Her last role, in “The Misfits” (1961), was directed by John Huston and written by Miller, whom she divorced just one week before the film’s opening.

By 1961, Monroe, beset by depression, was under the constant care of a psychiatrist. Increasingly erratic in the last months of her life, she lived as a virtual recluse in her Brentwood, Los Angeles, home. After midnight on August 5, 1962, her maid, Eunice Murray, noticed Monroe’s bedroom light on. When Murray found the door locked and Marilyn unresponsive to her calls, she called Monroe’s psychiatrist, Dr. Ralph Greenson, who gained access to the room by breaking a window. Entering, he found Marilyn dead, and the police were called sometime after. An autopsy found a fatal amount of sedatives in her system, and her death was ruled probable suicide.

In recent decades, there have been a number of conspiracy theories about her death, most of which contend that she was murdered by John and/or Robert Kennedy, with whom she allegedly had love affairs. These theories claim that the Kennedys killed her (or had her killed) because they feared she would make public their love affairs and other government secrets she was gathering. On August 4, 1962, Robert Kennedy, then attorney general in his older brother’s cabinet, was in fact in Los Angeles. Two decades after the fact, Monroe’s housekeeper, Eunice Murray, announced for the first time that the attorney general had visited Marilyn on the night of her death and quarreled with her, but the reliability of these and other statements made by Murray are questionable.

Decades after her death, Marilyn Monroe remains a major cultural icon. The unknown details of her final performance only add to her mystique.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS

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fuzzydemolitionsquad · 7 years

Text

Lasat family slice of life story

So I took a short vacation from one project to do a personal project, and I've found that breaking away and changing up really helps reignite passion when it comes to returning to stories that have been in the works for months . . . some even years.

This features my Southern-mountain folk lasat oc's so if you don't reeealy like that sort of thing in the Star wars universe I totally understand. If you're interested though, I encourage a read. I'm trying to improve when it comes to writing engaging characters.

The exaggerated language/words these guys speak is part researched and part imagined. The story is a fiction-y take on old-timey Appalachian culture (space Appalachian culture?) (which I love) It's gradually gets more 'lasat' toward the end.

It doesn't have a title. Maybe someone can help?

-------------

Morning

Southeast Lasan

The sun draped a ribbon of honey-colored light over the highest ridge of the Sou Mountains, alighting the tops of the tallest greenjacket trees. A pale blue moon, flanked by its three smaller satellites, lay low in the fading-star-freckled sky.

Morning had come, and the inhabitants of every mountain home, from Sarrkey Knob to Pricklebush, were awake and bustling with activity. It was the beginning of Spring, a scant few months away from the Dust Season, and the hillfolk in these mountains had much to do. The snow had melted. It was time to plant crops and repair fences and barns. Time to pull hammerhead cow calves and build mud-and- straw nests for farrowing kalgow sows.

Shoog Trodd languished in the cocoon of her feather-down quilt. She knew it was time to get up, and also knew if she didn’t get her furry brown butt out of bed soon, her ma would certainly aid her in the process. ‘The chookens won’t gathee they’s own aigs fer us’, she’d say, waving her apron at her with a flourish.

Shoog lifted the hem of her old nightgown and looked down her skinny legs to her too-large feet and growled to herself. She wished she looked more like her older sister. Sally Trodd was built like one of those Amethyst City gals—the voluptuous ones with glossy fur and whitened fangs—who had their pictures in all the prominent fashion flimsi-mags. Sal would look good in a paper poke, if the occasion ever arose where she had to wear one.

It was Shoog’s Flowering Day, the seventeenth year since her birth, but instead of being happy, she was as glum as could be.

"Gonna have to wear the same dress fer my Flowerin’ Day that I wore fer mah last birthday. And I don’t even have m’ ears pierced. Ma and pa says I’m a woman now, but I still dress like a little ol’ kid. Wish I had some pocket money to least buy some ankle garters."

A chooky rooster crowed on the fencepost and Shoog jumped out of bed. She could hear her ma in the kitchen tossing logs into the iron woodstove. Pa was rousing too. It was customary for pa to utter a few gruff ‘karabasts’ each morning before work. He wished he had more time to enjoy the morning’s light, but soon enough he would be descending into the bowels of the G.R.Gradd-Co Quadranium Mine no. seven, and wouldn’t return home until after the sun had dipped below the mountains. The one thing he looked forward to was ma’s breakfasts, even in the lean times. Today there would be fried scrapple and eggs, sweet gorm porridge and wood-sprite mushroom preserves on last night’s leftover maize bread. And caf, strong and black.

Shoog threw an old coat over her nightdress and ran a comb through her wild hair. She hustled out of her room and trotted for the front door.

"Sugar!"

The lasat girl halted at the sound of her mother’s voice.

"Come sit a spell woodja?"

"Gotta use thee outhouse, ma!"

"I ain’t gonna take long. Sides, Puggles is in there right now."

Shoog tossed her head back and closed her eyes."Chaos, Puggles, I know we is alike, but do yew always hafta go when I need to?"

She marched into the kitchen and sat at the Trodd family’s ancient split log table. She traced her parents initials with her claw. It was a sweet testament to their love, and had been for almost seventy years.

Ma sat down with a cup of caf and propped her strong, brown-furred arms on the table. " Shoog, I was a thinkin,’ I’d like t’ curl yer hair and pin it up with granny’s blue pearl combs fore yer cuzzins and friends show up fer yer Flowerin’ Day party. What’cha think?"

The girl’s pointed ears perked. "That sounds good ma! Kin I ask Sal to pierce my ears? "

Ma’s nasal fold wrinkled in disdain. "Yew know I dun like those. They make a young female look like a fast female."

"What’s a fast female?"

"Thee kind what runs around wid all sorts a’ males. Sparkin’ all thee time and drinkin’ likker! Yew got a reppy-tayshun to keep, Shoog."

Pa, a seven-and-a-half-foot mountain of a lasat, entered the kitchen. He set his miner’s helmet on the table, squeezed ma’s shoulders and gave her a tender nose-press. They exchanged a quick breath.

"Aww, ma, stop beein’ so old-fashioned. If my Sugar wants a cupple lil’ earrings t’ make her head look purtier, then she kin have um. It’s her Flowerin’ Day after all."

Ma was incensed. Her yellow-orange eyes bulged. She pounded the heavy table and it quivered. " Rufus Aloysius Trodd! Donchee dare step on me like that! Iffen I say no, I mean no!"

Pa poured himself a large pottery mug of caf. He quickly pressed the rim of the mug against his lips to hide his smile

Shoog sulked. Sometimes her mother was such a bogan. "Well, kin I at least go to the second-hand and look fer a dress to wear?"

Pa set down his caf. "I’m sorry darlin’. Money’s tighter than a Nemoidian’s fist right now. I still owes the comp-ny store fifty creds from last month. Maybe next year."

"Next year won’t be my Flowerin’ Day." Shoog pushed back her chair and buttoned up her coat. "Pa?" She looked at her fearsome but loving patriarch. "Is yew gonna be at my party?"

" I’m reel sorry darlin. I hafta work all day. We found a new vein a’ quadranium and the boss man want us to fill thee quota afore Secondday."

"Oh." Shoog said, deflated. "I better go git them aigs. Dun want yew to miss yer breakfast."

"That’s a good girl." Ma oiled a skillet and set it aside. "Dun bother lil’ Speckle. Jus’ let her be. Thee other hens wuz picking on her sumthing awful yesterday. I think she’s gonna die."

Shoog winced. "Figgurs. She’s my favrit. What a great day this is turnin’ out to be."

The girl slammed the screened door as she exited the house. Ma and pa looked at each other and smiled.

"Oh, I cain’t stand trickin’ her like this. Do you think she has any idear?"

"None whatsever."

Ma plucked a jar of mushroom preserves off the top shelf and set it on the table."Rufus, yew really owe thee comp-ny store fifty credits?"

"Course not. I’s jus tryin’ to fatten up our story some." Rufus growled low in his throat. It was a plaintive growl, not a scary one. "Cain’t believe my youngest girl-cub is a woman-lasat. Seems like only yesterday she wuz a little sprig, wrasslin’ oalamanders in th’mud."

"An’ Puggles will follow her in a year. Then all of our cubs’ll be growed."

"If Puggles don’ stop sparimentin’ wid them damn farcrackers he ain’t gonna make it to his seventeenth birthday. I swear, that cub’s plumb crazy."

"Yew hesh-up now Rufus. Puggles is just gittin’ out his fluster-ations by havin’ a lil’ fun. Jimbo and Jax won’t stop pickin’ on him. It’s high time they got a few whacks wid Ol’ Skinner."

Pa looked down at the infamous belt around his massive girth and chuckled. One day he’d have to hang it in the shed with the rest of the tools.

"I s’pose yer right. I jus ain’t home enough to discipline them. Heh, at least we kin be thankful Puggles ain’t buildin’ bombs. He shore does take a shine to the boomin’ don’t he? Member how much he loved thunder when he wuz a sucklin’ cub?"

Ma grinned. "Shore enough I do. All dem other cubs wood be quiverin’ under they beds, but Not Puggles. He’d climb all over his crib and giggle and sway like he were list’nin to a funny song."

" Seems like only yesterday." Pa reminisced. "I should take him down to the mine, let him watch the detonite crew at work. He’d prolly like dat."

* * * *

Shoog crouched in the henhouse with a full basket of eggs and Lil’ Speckle tucked inside her coat. Jimbo’s prized hen, a big blue with a row of serrated teeth in her lizard-like jaw, glared angrily at the timid chooken sticking her head out of Shoog’s collar. ‘Lola’ strutted back and forth on one of the henhouse rafters, cluck-hissing, her feathers puffed and her spur toes clacking.

"Speckle, we better git outta here afore Lola shits on us . . . or worse. I’ll keep yew in my closet, but yew gotta be real quiet when I give these aigs to ma. Deal?"

The injured chooken cocked her head. She opened her mouth and waggled her tongue, panting.

When Shoog entered the house, she carried the basket over to the wash counter and set it down. She gripped the collar of her coat, holding it close to her neck, and turned to walk to the small bedroom she shared with Sal. Ma caught her by the ear.

"Yoww!"

"Hold on there. Ain’t yew fergetting something?"

Shoog huffed in indignation. "I has to scrub them aigs on my Flowerin’ Day?"

"It’s yer chore ain’t it?"

"Yeah but . . ."

" Get scrubbin’ missy."

Shoog scowled. She looked over at Sal, who was setting the table. Sal’s eyes met her sister’s as she placed a bowl of fresh churned butter on the table. For a moment, Shoog thought she looked sympathetic.

"Now I know why yew celebrated yer seventeenth birthday in the city wid yer friends. I thought it wuz dumb, but it all makes sense now."

Ma and pa looked at each other, silent as tombs.

Shoog got down to business scrubbing the eggs, trying to keep the chooken in her coat still and quiet. She thought of The Amethyst City—The Royal City—and daydreamed about the King and Queen and their well-dressed court. She thought about the beautiful but air-headed princess, and the handsome, ginger-furred prince. He was tall, with bedroom eyes, a curled mustache and pomaded facial fringes. It was said that he had over a hundred lovers, most of them married, but Shoog didn’t believe it. No lasat, male or female, could have that many lovers! She then thought about the Royal Honor Guard, the cream of Lasan’s military force. They were hand-picked from their barracks by war-council leaders, chosen for their agility and strength and smarts. Shoog couldn’t deny how good the male soldiers looked in their form-fitting armorweave suits, complete with capes, helmets and bo-rifles. A burst of painful pleasure electrified the pit of her belly and she forced herself to think of other things.

When she was done, she dried her hands on the dishtowel and stormed toward her room. Ma shouted after her.

"Breakfast will be ready in about a quarter-tick."

"I’m not hungry!"

Ma’s tough facade melted. She whispered to pa. " I don’ think I kin do this anymore. If I keep it up she’s gunna hate me somethin’ awful."

Pa laughed. " Why don’ yew jus’ let her have her gad-durned earrings? She’ll be as happy as a killow flying through a skeeter storm. They won’t turn her into a wicked woman. Our Sugar is a good girl."

Sal’s eyes narrowed.

Sadie snorted and her slot nostrils flared. "Fine. Mebbe I’ll git my ears pierced too. And buy me one of them low-cut gowns, like thee ones them street corner gals wear."

Sally spat out her coffee and made a high-pitched noise, like a reed-squirrel chipping. The thought of her strong, robust-figured mother in a slinky gown was impossible not to giggle at. Pa however, had a different opinion of the matter. He smoothed down his thick mane of a beard and quirked his brow salaciously.

"Yew git yerself a gown like that Sadie, and I’ll personally throw erryone of our brood outta thee house an tell em to stay away fer three days."

Sally stopped laughing. She rolled her long-lashed eyes.

"Gross, pa. Really gross."

She picked a warty-skinned tuber out of the vegetable bin, tossed it into the air and caught it.

"One set of pierced ears coming up." She said, flouncing and jiggling in a most impressive way.

*******

"I wish I wuz a chooken." Shoog said, filling a box in her closet with old handkerchiefs. Lil’ Speckle flopped around on her bedroom floor. She clucked feebly and pecked at a crumb of food that had fallen between two boards.

"Then I could just strut about, pecking and a’ eatin’ and shittin’ out aigs. I wouldn’t have to worry bout being a Gods-dammed loser on my Flowerin’ Day."

"Aren’t you being a bit dramatic?" Sally said, slinking into the room like a brown-furred Goddess. "It’s hardly the end of Lasan. And you better be careful. Ma will give you the back of the brush if she hears you cursing."

Sally had practiced long and hard to speak like a ‘proper’ lasat, ridding herself of that ‘inherited common-human inflection.’ The humans had left Lasan over a millennia ago, but the ancestors of those lasats who neighbored with them in the mountains still spoke the speak.

"Ooh Shoog, what do you have there? A chooken? Are you, as they say, ‘a’fixing to rile ma up?"

" Cakkhh! Shoog spat-snarled. Stop beein’ so damn snobby. It’s annoyin’! Like it or not, you is a hilltrekker jus like the rest of us, and yew always will be. And yes, it’s a chooken. If stupid Jimbo kin bring his precious Lola in th’ house, I dun see no good reason why I cain’t keep Speckle."

On any other day, Sally would jump Shoog for her insolence. The two would engage in a howling, clawing, hair-pulling battle until ma came bursting in to give their bottoms’ a good beating. But today was Shoog’s special birthday. Sal decided to let it go. She sat down on her bed, rolled onto her belly and folded her arms under her chin. She stared at her sister, a tooka’s grin on her face. "So, how do you feel you little nerf? Different?"

"Why would I feel diff’rent?" Shoog lifted Lil’ Speckle into the box and checked her wounds.

" Because you’re a ‘wahmerr’ now. Sally enunciated the Illasano word for ‘woman.’

"Don’ feel like no wahmerr."

" I mean, what do you think about the jackbeards around these parts? They give you the belly tingles yet?"

Shoog flushed. "Sometimes. But Hells, half of the boys round these parts have scrawny beards and bony shoulders."

"True. However, there’s a handsome jack visiting the Boggs. A dark blue striper without a tail. And he has a nice beard coming in." Sal sighed wistfully. "Wonder who he is and where he comes from?"

The younger girl shrugged. "Dunno. I ain’t never seen him."

"If you play your sabbacc cards right, and flirt like I taught you, he might be your boyfriend . . ." Sal said in a sing-song voice.

"Bogan’s balls, I don’ want no boyfriend. I ain’t ready fer all that. I still sleep wid that howler bear toy granny made me when I wuz five."

"I know. And you still suck your thumb."

"I do not! That’s Puggles!"

"Well, I don’t sleep in Puggles’room."

Shoog was about to make a retort when Sally held up the tuber in her hand.

"Why you got that tater? Is yew gonna throw it at me?"

" No, dummy. Ma finally took pity on you. She’s going to allow me to pierce your ears. See the yellow glass studs on my dresser? Those are for you. I liked them when I bought them, but yellow’s not really my color. Happy Flowering Day, Twig."

Shoog squealed. She hopped up onto Sal’s bed and jumped around like a jitter-tick on a hot speeder engine.

"Is yew serious?"

"Serious as a snake-bite. Now stop jumping. That’s all I need is for you to break my bed and have ma thinking me and some jack did it!"

" Ok, sorry." Shoog leapt down. She rocked on her footpads. Her eight toes kneaded the rug beside the bed.

There was a knock at the bedroom door and ma came in, a clean kitchen towel in her hand.

"Here’s the knife fer the tater and a biled safety pin. Yew sure yew know how to do this Sal?"

"Yes ma. I’ve pierced so many of my friends’ ears I’m practically a professional."

"Land a muddlin’ I shore hope so."

Shoog ran to her mother and squeezed her ample waist. "Thank yew, mama, thank yew!!"

"Alright child, alright." Ma held her out at arms length and looked at her. A tear formed in the corner of her eye. "Don’t yew come cryin’ to me if they get infected, ya hear?"

"I won’t."

Ma wiped her eyes with her apron and stood against the doorframe, watching. Sal cut the potato and set it on the clean towel then got the studs. She put them down and looked around. "Do we have any alcohol, ma?"

" Kingdom a’ Ashla and thee Great Bearded One!! No we don’t."

"I can’t do this unless I disinfect everything."

Shoog whined. "Aww, I knew this wuz too good to be true." She threw herself on her bed and crossed her arms like a petulant toddler. She glanced up. A green-bellied arach was spinning a red web on the ceiling.

"Spahder in the house!" She shouted. "Bad luck, bad luck, bad luck be gone!"

Ma ignored Shoog. "I know! Hold on a second."

She left and returned with a jar of clear, sky-colored liquid.

"That’s pa’s blue lightning!" Sal blinked her eyes, shocked. "He and Mossy only made a small batch this year. If he finds out we used it for. . ."

"What he don’ know won’t rile him. Sides, yer only gonna use a little." Ma handed Sal the jar.

The lasat girl unscrewed it and the potent vapors almost knocked her over. She dipped the clean towel in the jar and wiped it all over her hands. Then she wiped the studs. Shoog sat up and held her mid-section. Fairy-bats were flittering around in her belly.

"You ready? Sal held up the safety pin.

"It ain’ gonna hurt a lot is it?"

" Ashla, Shoog. All that whining and now you’re scared? Janey’s the biggest coward in these hills and she let me pierce her ears."

"I know but . ."

"It doesn’t hurt at all. It’s more like a little pinch than anything. Besides, I’m fast. Just close your eyes and hold your breath and it’ll all be over before you know it. Here, hold your growly-bear."

Shoog took the worn stuffed animal and pushed it against her face. Sally moved to her sister’s bed. She gripped her ear and stretched it thin over the potato. Ma steepled her hands in front of her mouth.

Sal stuck her tongue out the side of her mouth and squinted. Her piercing hand hovered over her sister’s ear. "Okay Shoog, little pinch. One. . . two. . . THREE!"

She skewered her sister’s pinna with one punch and removed the tuber.

"That’s it. I’ll leave it in there and let it stretch the hole out a bit."

Shoog removed the bear from her face. "That’s it? I hardly felt that a’tall! Do the other one!"

"Hold your krauntauns. I’m wiping the pin."

Sally pierced Shoog’s other ear and pushed the studs through. Shoog ran to the mirror to admire her sister’s work. The earrings were beautiful, like scintillating dew drops touched by the sun. Ma brushed and curled her daughter’s thick, dark brown hair and dabbed a drop of tinted gloss on her lips. "Look up." She said as she applied two coats of mascara to her lashes. Sal tried to be helpful when she offered Shoog one of her too-small short skirts and a tiny top. Ma vetoed them the moment they exited the closet. She walked her daughter over to the dresser mirror and stood behind her.

"Wooo." Shoog leaned forward and studied the visage staring back at her. "I dun look half bad."

"You look a’might purty if yew ask me." Ma kissed her cheek. " Now rest up a spell. Thee guests should start arrivin’ by sunhigh. I’m gunna go pay yer aunt Daizee a call. Bring her some tack-biscuits and sweet-nettle tea. That baby inner is making her as sick as an anooba in a melon patch."

"Well it is an Orrelios." Sal said, her eyes downcast.

"Hesh-up. I don’t want none of that talk outta you ‘round Daizee, yew hear?"

"Yeah, I hear."

******

Sugar Trodd dreamed that the prince of Lasan had invited her to the Royal Palace. Naturally, he was infatuated with her at first sight. Never had he seen such a delicate mountain flower. He compared her eyes to the torch-fires of Izrothir , her lips to a fount of heady wine and her small breasts to a pair of decadent Aztecan chocolate truffles. He found himself mad with passion and he couldn’t help but beg her to be his wife. Shoog smiled in her slumber when he breathed into her ear and nuzzled her temple with his lips. She traced the prince’s handsome brow-ridges with her fingertips and put her hands on the back of his head. She drew him in close, touching her snub nose to his. They shared a life-breath and then connected in a kiss. . .

The sounds of a gathering crowd whisked the prince away into obscurity. Shoog woke with a snort. She jumped out of bed and drew back her curtain to look at a large gathering of women-lasats arranging food on a long plank table in front of the house. Some she recognized, like her aunts and cousins and friends, but some she didn’t. Did her cousins and friends invite friends of their own?

Wood in the brick fire pit burned hot, and the mouth-watering smell of roasting prongnose wafted in through her bedroom window. She closed the curtain with a swift pull.

"Karabast! That’s all fer me? All that food and all them people?" She knelt in front of the chest at the foot of her bed and frantically pulled clothes from it. Lil’ Speckle looked at her with sleepy-hen eyes, then, unfazed, drank from the water dish Shoog had provided her.

"There ain’t nothing in here worth wearing, cept mebbe this fancy sweaterdress. Uhhggh, No!" She threw it down. "It too hot outside fer that!"

She sat back down on her bed and agonized over her choices. Then,

"You know what? Ma and Sal went through a lot of trouble to make me feel good. Least I kin do is be ‘preesh-ative. That ol’ dress a mine ain’t so bad. Hells, nobody will recognize it from last year. I hope."

Shoog wriggled into her slip and tossed the old blue dress on. It was a little tighter and shorter than she remembered. Was it possible she did that much growing in one year? She buttoned it up.

She went to the mirror and combed her curls, then put on another dab of gloss and rubbed her lips together. Ma came into the room, a colorful box tucked under her arm.

"Oh, Sugar darlin’ that old dress won’t do. Not fer yer flowerin’!"

"It’s not a bad dress ma. An’ look, it fits me better this year!"

"I dunno," Sadie rubbed her furry chin. "What do yew think Daizee?"

Aunt Daizee’s purple-striped face peered into the room. She was a pretty lasat, pretty as a jogan, but a lack of sleep and constant morning sickness had hollowed her cheeks and darkened the sockets of her eyes.

"I reckon it’s okay. But I think you’d like what’s in the box better."

Shoog’s heart skipped a beat. She eyed the colorful package tucked under her mother’s arm and her mouth dropped open. She felt like a magnet drawn to metal.

"Happy Flowerin’ Day my darlin’." Ma handed Shoog the package. It was wrapped in pink foil paper and tied with a big white bow. Shoog whistled through her front teeth.

"That’s the nicest wrappin’ paper I’ve ever seen in my whole life! I don’ wanna rip it."

"Oh go ahead, rip it!" Sal said, coming into the room.

"No. It’s too purty to waste. I kin use it again." Shoog sat cross-legged on her bed with the box on top of her knees. She was dying to see what was inside.

After carefully removing the bow and paper she removed the box top and unfolded the dish towel containing her present. She held her hands to her mouth and gasped. Inside, was an elegant strapless dress the color of fresh-churned butter. Shoog lifted it out of the box. It had a scalloped front and was gathered at the waist. The opening in back, plunging to mid spine, was laced with delicate yellow ribbons.

"Great Bearded One, if this ain’t the purtiest dress I ever did see!" She held it up in front of her and twirled. "And strapless too! Ain’t this gonna make me look ‘fast’ ma?"

" Yer auntie says it’s an elegant dress. It ain’t meant t’ make yew look fast. Hit’s meant t’ make yew look like a lady."

"It’s gorgeous, Shoog." Sal said with a hint of jealousy.

*********

Shoog greeted her guests. They oohed and aaahed and told her to turn around. Great aunts pinched her cheeks and friends and cousins made big productions out of her new look. They ‘Oh my Godded’ and ‘You’re so luckyed’ her so much, she felt like a celebrity. When she slipped away for a second to get some pucker-fruit punch she looked into the throng of lasats and felt her face contort into a confused frown.

Where were all the males?

Every guest, except for the youngest cubs, were female.

Shoog saw her eldest sister Mae placing a bowl of rarrcot and swamp-plum salad on the table. She went up to her.

"Hey mama Mae."

" There she is! The belle of the ball. The most beautiful girl here. And to think, yew were a rough-and tumble little jack-boy the last time I saw yew."

"Aw, I’m still a jack-boy. I ain’t never gonna stop huntin’ and fishin’ wid pa, or stop wrasslin wid the fellers."

"Yew might wanna reconsider that last one." Mae said, wiping the rim of the bowl with a wet cloth.

"Uhm, speaking of fellers, where’s all th’ males at? I ain’t seen a peek of Jimbo or Jax or Muss or Puggles. Not even Mawsy. And there’s beer here, I know it!"

"I’m sure they’re around. Somewhere." Mae winked and tweaked Shoog’s chin. She turned at the sound of a grating female voice. "Oh, I see someone invited that ol’ loon-cootie Lottie Bingo. She’s prowbly thumping the Great Bearded One’s book, preachin’ about the sins of the flesh and fur." She frowned. "Bless her heart. Well, excuse me darlin,’ I have to find some more cutlery. I brought my wedding set of aurodium plate, great-Aunt Tilda and Winnie did too, but a lot more lasats than we anticipated turned up to see yew flower."

Shoog hugged her sister and skipped off. She joined her friends and kin on the grassy hill behind the barn and stood in a long line. They played malogi’-majlogo, a once-competitive game that was rumored to come from the fabled planet of Lirasan. Most historians and lasopoligists believed all lasats living on Lasan came via a human transport over three-thousand years ago, as no bones found in middens were any older. Lasats had to come from somewhere. Perhaps the legend of Lirasan wasn’t so far fetched as many once thought.

The girls clapped their hands loudly, calling out the name of the first girl in line. Cousin Hildi stepped out of line and performed a dance she had conjured up the night before. She flapped her arms like a killow and stood high on her toes and cartwheeled until he landed on her tail. Laughing, she skipped her way to the end of the line. Next was Sally. Her dance—though impressive— was as predictable as it was sensuous, and was hard to clap to. Other girls followed, each one with their own trademark dance style. Then came Shoog’s turn.

Pumped with adrenaline, she ran out in front of the gang of laughing girls and raised a ferocious scream so loud her younger cousins covered their sensitive ears. She crouched low and prowled and paced. She bared her fangs and popped her eyes. They burned a deep orange around their pinprick pupils. The girls went wild. They clapped in quintuple-beat, clap clap. . . clapclapclap. . . a warrish beat. Shoog knelt in the grass and shimmied her shoulders. She slapped the palms of her hands on the ground and whipped her head around then sprang from her crouch, eight feet into the air, landing in a pose reminiscent of that of a sprinter at a starting line. She stood, thrust out a bent leg and raised her face to the sky before letting out another scream. The girls were about to applaud the dance when the most blood-curdling roar they had ever heard split the air through the holler. Shoog stood up straight. A beaming smile covered her face. She knew that roar.

Coming up the rising path was a large troop of males, her father in the lead.

"Pa!" She lifted her dress and ran straight for the giant lasat, her companions not far behind. The eerie moan of traditional polished horn prong-pipes heralded the males’ entrance. The blowing of the pipes informed colonies of lasats that a clan leader was approaching. Even in the royal city they used wrought-ore versions of the ancient instruments whenever the King and Queen made an appearance.

Flanking pa were his sons. Rufus jr. and Zelbert. Muss and Naylor. Jax and Jimbo and Puggles. Even Trapper, who spent most of his life in solitude in the high mountains. As she got closer, Shoog saw Mossy, and also cousin Zeke and Bubba. A phalanx of other kin and family friends followed behind. Shoog leapt at her father who caught her in a hug then hoisted her up onto his shoulder. They marched through the crowd of women-folk and stood at attention in the yard. On the porch, pa’s well-fed anooba Gracie horrked and slobbered and ran her tongue over the jutting spade of a tooth in her lower jaw. She galloped up to Rufus and stood upright, putting her long-clawed paws on his chest. Mossy grabbed a beer from a washtub and cracked it open on the beastly creature’s tooth. The young boys in the crowd laughed.

The male lasats were dressed in their finest woodsmen-warrior garb, which included sleeveless, multipocketed jerkins and arm bracers with pouches. They wore gray prongnose-wool skilts—with clan colors and designs around the bottom— and leather codpieces and knife sheaths. Most bore two bandoliers that crisscrossed their chests and each male carried an impressive arsenal of weapons. Pa’s old rifle was slung across his back and two throwing axes hung at his hips. Whip-killow feathers wreathed his bony dome, and his face, already fearsome, was painted white, like a skull. There were males with shining daggers and lacquered bats. Males with falchions, slugthrowers and plasma spitters, pole-bows, maces and spears.

Each male was fearsome and striking, even little Puggles, whose painted face and shark-jawed visage made him look like a strangely formidable foe. The trio of smoke-screamer grenades in his bandolier also helped.

Shoog kicked Gracie’s paws off Rufus’s chest. " Don’tchu get my dress dirty y’ whip-tailed bitch. I’ll brain ye!"

A lasat in the back, pa’s friend Tabe, guffawed like a drunk at a circus.

"That thar is deffy-nit-ly yer pro-genny ol’ Roof! Shore as a tick loves a furry ass-crack."

"We is gonna have t’ get more beer." Ma whispered to Daizee.

The purple-striped female caressed the small bulge in her belly. "Um, or mebbe not. I’m sure some of them boys brang they’s own distillate. Hey!" She yelped. "Easy little one. Land’ a muddlin’, only five months old and she’s kickin’ like a cow!"

Shoog poked her pa’s snub nose and wiped the white paint on his jerkin. "Hey pa, why is yew fellers all fancied up an’ armed to thee teeth?"

Rufus tickled Shoog’s ear, like he did when she was small."I wuz unner thee impression they taught yew kids history in school!"

"They did! But all we loined about wuz thee portent ‘citified lasats’."

"Damn shame. Well Sugar, hits like this. Back in the day, b’fore miners and mines an’ banks and comp’ny stores, there wuz th’ Clans o’ Thee Forest. Some clans wuz small and sum clans wuz big. Our linny-age goes way back. There wuz Trodds what wuz picked to fight in thee barbarian wars."

"Oh yeah! I ‘member grampy saying somethin’ like that!"

"Anyway, prommy-nunt clan leaders wuz a’might fond of they’s kids. When a girl came of the age for broodin,’ her pa threw her a big party so young-jacks could come to show their talents and try they’s hands at wooin’.

"Hell, I ain’t gonna do no broodin, er, breedin! Not fer a long time!"

" Corse y’ ain’t! This wuz thee old days, ‘member?"

"Oh yeah. So why all the weapons?"

"Well, a Clan leader had to pertect his daughter frum jope-jacks and briggards, so he employeed his own personal army a’ kinfolk an’ frens t’ keep her safe."

" That’s purty wizard pa."

"What?"

"That’s neat."

Rufus lifted his daughter off his shoulder and set her on the ground in front of him. His face was stoic, cool and composed, but under the skin he was weeping. His hook-baiter, his lizard spooker, his fire-starter, was now a woman. Suddenly he was glad for all his faithful ‘warriors’. There were boys showing up at the party that he didn’t know. One thing was for sure. They wouldn’t want to know him if they messed with Shoog.

**********

Ma eventually broke down. From the moment she woke, she told herself that she wouldn’t cry today. She was certain her spirited and independent daughter would breeze through the ceremony without nary a sniffle or a tremor, but as the visitors crowded around the decorated stump and Rufus helped Shoog up on top of it, ma could tell her poor girl was nervous to the point of fainting. She looked so small, so vulnerable.

Pa pulled a dog-eared book out of one of his breast pockets, licked his thumb and turned the pages. The book, with its crackled parchment pages was over nine-hundred years old. It had been passed from clan patriarch to clan patriarch, and when the time came for Rufus to be bested in combat by one of his sons for title as clan leader—most likely Rufus jr.—he would pass it down as well.

Ma stood next to pa. To his other side was Shoog’s sister Hallie, the Trodd family medicine woman. She held a dipper of water with bits of maiden’s-foot fern floating in it.

Pa found the page he was looking for. He cleared his throat. He could speak old Illasano, but he was very much out of practice.

" Shrrwall mirol." He intoned. "Harrkg dasa, harrkg mojallan, miuuk ti, ti’as Sugar bilo nen dauhirra wahmerr."

(Honored guests. Beloved friends, beloved family, we today give our child-daughter Sugar to womanhood.)

" Ashla fuegolo malinta. (Ashla be near)

"Ashla fuegolo malinta!" Chanted the crowd.

" Umdayrr ti’as rrip ti’as pial." (Today she sheds her skin)

"Umdayrr ti’as comass a sharrgo!" (Today she feeds the fire!)

"Pil ti’as songerr naberskerr!" (May she be strong as a warrior.)

"Pil ti’as oovak mana." (May her womb be fruitful.)

Shoog rolled her eyes and blushed and the crowd burst out in laughter.

Jimbo parenthesized his mouth with his hands and shouted. "Dun git knocked up tonight!" Jax slapped his knee and brayed.

" Shet-up yew dumb-asses!" Shoog yelled back, stomping her foot. Pa cracked up. He took a deep breath. He had to regain his composure before continuing.

"C’mon Roof! Yew kin do it!" His brother Jethro cried.

"Ahem. . . "Pil ti’as rrrmaeso, kon hoorr’baerbo mah foshzam." (May she summon the wisdoms, the heart-knowing.)

"Chh lengg ti’as sorrvive." (As long as she walks the land.)

"Ashla glorrae." (Ashla blessed)

"Ashla glorrae." Everyone said, solemnly.

Ma was now sobbing. Daizee squeezed her shoulder.

"Well, I reckon that’s it fer the prayer." Pa said, closing the book and carefully putting it back in his pocket. Ma dabbed her streaming eyes with a handkerchief.

"Oh Rufus, that wuz beeyootiful. Absolutely beeyootiful."

Mossy came forward with a torch and set the stacked kindling wood in a pit in front of the stump on fire.

"Y’ ready Twig?" He asked Shoog.

"Ready as all ever be."

The girl-now woman reached out and took her beloved growly-bear from her father. She looked down at the crackling fire and tossed the toy in.

"Ti’a parrile a muart." (" The child is dead")

Hallie washed her sister’s hands with the fern-water.

The crowd cheered and ran forward. Many held dried snake skins in their hands which they threw on Shoog, symbolically shedding her of the remaining spirit of childhood.

"Time fer vittles y’all!’ Daizee clapped her hands and yelled. "This young’in in me is a’ chompin at thee rope!"

Everyone congratulated Shoog and ran to find a place at the main table. The prongnose was pulled out of the fire, as were fifty chookens, a pair of suckling kalgows and a haunch of beef. It wasn’t much meat, but there were plenty of side dishes brought by guests to be sampled.

Shoog watched her bear burn until nothing was left but a pair of melting button eyes. She sighed, jumped off the stump and joined the rest of the throng.

After supper, the shine came out, which meant roughhousing. A handful of guardsmen pledged to stay sober just in case the fun turned into full-blown fighting. Hallie came up to pa, a concerned look on her face.

"Don’t look now, pa. Bubba is head-sparrin’ wid uncle Bocephus. And a few other fellers."

A passel of lasat men—attended by woman with cold rags—rolled around on the ground, holding their bony craniums and groaning.

Rufus groaned as well. His hefty, good-natured nephew loved to smack skulls with other lasats, even when sober, but he often failed to think about the force behind his weight. In this county, he was reigning head-butt champion.

"Time t’ give fat-boy a spankin’. Rufus pounded his palm with his fist.

**********

The afternoon sped like a hooch-runner into the night.

Shoog excused herself from the crowd—and the boys in it who shoved to the front to ask her to dance—and found a place behind the hen-house where she could be alone. She had partaken of a few sips of snowberry wine and was feeling content and happy. Spark flies hovered beneath the branches of the old greenjacket in the yard and over the maize tassels in ma’s garden. Little cubs clambered about on the tire swing and bigger cubs climbed the tree itself, proving their bravery. She had to look twice to determine whose kids they were. It turned out they were Mae’s grandkids. She waved to them and they waved back with their sticky, cake-and-punch fingers. Puggles ambled over, a Lasan Blue Ribbon beer in his hand.

" Sum party, eh Shoog?" He drained the beer can and crushed it against his furry brow.

"That’s gonna hurt in the mornin.’Hey, how’d yew git that anyway? Yew know pa will tan yer tail if he see’s yew wif a hard drank."

"Beer ain’t a hard drank. Mossy said so."

"Ohh. If Mausee told you a turd wuz a turnip, wood yew bile it in water?"

"I reckon I woodnt."

The siblings sat in silence for a few seconds. The sounds of lasats laughing and singing and debating politics merged with the sweet melody of fiddle music. It was emanating from the barn, where lasats were dancing the night away. Some of the brawnier males took their jerkins off and performed frightening warrior dances. Everyone hooped and hollered and begged for more. Most of the males charged with ‘policing the crowd’ were asleep on the lawn or under the table, their drained jars still clasped in their hands.

"Sorry bout yer growly bear." Puggles looked up at his sister with large honest eyes. "Why didn’t yew pick something else fer the far?"

Shoog smiled at her brother and squeezed his hand. "Well, thee whole point of thee ceremony was fer me to give up m’ childhood. It needed to be a might parful symbol, something sad an’ a lil’ painful, because honestly Puggles, growin’ up hain’t all what it’s cracked up to be."

" Yew ain’t happy bout bee’in a woman-lasat?"

Shoog took another sip of her wine. "In one way, yeah, I s’pose so. I have more say in things now. But in another . . . look what I’ll be missin.’"

She pointed to the cubs in the tree, carrying on like they hadn’t a care in the world. Puggles chhuhhed.

"Beein’ a growed up means more ‘sponsibility, but yew ain’t never gotta give up on fun. That prayer pa said, hits a million-years old. It ain’t meant t’ be follered zactly the way he said it."

"Ye think so?"

"Well, dats whut I think! Shit, ahs’ll never let a-dulthood turn me into a borin’ stiff!"

Shoog got out of her chair and gave her little brother a hug. "Yew is smarter than yew give yerself credit fer."

She smiled sweetly. Then she punched him in the stomach.

"Owwww!! What’s that fer?"

"That’s fer them farworks you sent up. Honestly Puggles, Booger? You spelt my name Booger?"

Puggles gripped his belly. "Errybody else thunk is wuz funny!"

"Yeah I bet they did!" She pulled his sparse beard. He yanked her hair. They started to wrestle.

Ma and pa stood at a distance. " Yew see that Sadie? Sum things never change."

"I swear to the Bogan, ifffen she gits that dress mussed up, I’ll snatch her head bald."

Rufus turned Sadie toward him and embraced her. A devilish smile split his face.

"Why Rufus, what’s gotten into yew?"

" I wuz jus’ thinkin,’ How’s about we talk more about that strapless dress you is plannin’ to buy?"

-Finito-

#lasat #my characters #writing practice

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